Javier was tired of pretending he still gave a damn about playing by the rules. He was over it, to be frank. Needed a fresh start somewhere new.
And Las Vegas? Well, it doesnât do rules. It does indulgence. It does distraction. It does sin.
đ± After Hours | Javier Peña x Original Female Character [Written as Reader/âYouâ] đ±
When your family stops funding your socialite scandals, you do what any heiress whoâs lost everything does: take the pole working at a high-end strip club. Thatâs where you learn what happens After Hours when the city finally whispers its secrets. You capture the attention of Javier Peña, the newly promoted boss of the DEAâs Vegas branch, tasked with taking down criminal powerhouse The Ivory Saints. What follows is a volatile, addictive affair, dancing on the fault line between justice and corruption, desire and self-destruction, lust and power. No one truly knows who is using who.
RATING: E. Modern!AU. 18+. Explicit topics and other triggering matters will be explored in this body of work.
đ± series masterlist. | read on ao3. | playlist. | pinterest board. đ±
A/N: based off one of my favorite albums of all time (after hours by the weeknd), i really wanted to make something that encapsulated this story the way it plays out in my head. so after weeks of contemplating, i finally decided to try my hand at video editing and thus this beautiful edit was born! itâs not perfect by any meansâbut i love it and am super excited to share it with my amazing readers as a trailer/visual/gift for a fic that i am having the most absolute fun writing and creating đ€
If you are involved in sex work and need support, confidential help is available:
National Human Trafficking Hotline (U.S.): 1-888-373-7888 or text 233733 (BEFREE)
988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline (U.S.): call or text 988 for emotional support, 24/7
SWOP (Sex Workers Outreach Project): local chapters offer advocacy and resources
RAINN (for sexual violence support): 1-800-656-HOPE (4673)
Want to be part of the taglist? Feel free to fill out this form, DM me or reply to this post to be added âš
Lol that capoteera is such a b*tch. You can tell she HATES Alboo but pretends to be a fan. Everyone can see whoâs happy or not. They just donât want to admit and act like this is some May-December fairytale. Dumbass loners.
Everyone post what ever they want! Some are just being paid to maintain a rhetoric according to a contract others are just confused in what they read on social media and continue commenting as a hobby. Alba just placed her self in a fucking contract that just sank her in a hole. Young and naive! Oh May- DECEMBER YOU SURELY KNOW MORE! sure papers will come Alba against Chris and Chris will just accept what ever to be out of a mess he alone created.
Actors and actresses stop messing with fans people know whatâs up! The time can extend to cover the reality and look less messy but soon or later we all knowâŠ
This is so beyond fucking stupid đ€Łđ€Łđ€Łđ€Łđ€Ł Iâm sorry I donât live in a delusional wasteland like the rest of you idiots, and I wish I was getting paid for this because Iâd donate some to fund your psychiatric care
She thinks she is so bold!!!! And so delusional educated. Conspiracy is 90% accurate at the end of. Meaning many of us just donât care your uneducated standards.
Show real pictures of no AI pictures and run on paper walks like baby sitting or without him cleaning his mouth after kissing⊠you know what get a better hobby.
Time will tell Summer -Fall 2026 will be historical and the one who will need some nice sucking lessons will be you
Jajaja, see you in Summer 2026 in which Chris & Alba will still be married, and the again in the fall when they will STILL be married, who knows, maybe a second baby on the way.
How many times has that BUA that has been âreadyâ since 2023 2024. needs to be re-written? Itâs.. so sad after so many years to still believe itâs fake.
5 years he looks like struggling and unhappy sorry but not sorry the same BS with Sebastian and Henry seems they ruined their careers with PR relationships. Sebastian looks super old and Chris Evans đ”âđ«
âStruggling and Unhappyâ yet, he looked quite happy and in shape at the TIFF festival, he looked quite happy in Australia, he looked quite happy during the Materialist premiere speaking about his proposal.
He even looked very happy at the Vanity Fair red carpet a few years ago, and he looked happy at the comic con convention when he announced he was married.
I swear these delulus are projecting their own struggles and unhappiness because heâs married and has a baby.
They tell themselves that lie so they can justify their actions and feelings about him being married. It also makes them feel like itâs not because theyâre jealous but that theyâre worried about him because he looks sad. Itâs all a coping mechanism
5 years he looks like struggling and unhappy sorry but not sorry the same BS with Sebastian and Henry seems they ruined their careers with PR relationships. Sebastian looks super old and Chris Evans đ”âđ«
âStruggling and Unhappyâ yet, he looked quite happy and in shape at the TIFF festival, he looked quite happy in Australia, he looked quite happy during the Materialist premiere speaking about his proposal.
He even looked very happy at the Vanity Fair red carpet a few years ago, and he looked happy at the comic con convention when he announced he was married.
I swear these delulus are projecting their own struggles and unhappiness because heâs married and has a baby.
rating: X (not for minors) \ 22.5k words/bf dad joel miller x female reader
tags: if you don't like smut and morally ambiguous characters this is not the fic for you. there is adultery, thigh fucking, creampies, downright filthy talk, blow jobs, cunnilingus, fingering, keeping quiet, public sex, possessive joel miller and that isn't even all of it.
tldr: you accidentally fuck your bf's dad and then you keep fucking him.
masterlist
i tried very hard to keep this chapter short but it was impossible. I'm also under hella deadlines in the real world so this is not edited. i hope you like it and i figure for 22k words I deserve some long ass comments right? I have loved reading all your comments and I will say that this chapter clears up ONE BIG MYSTERY.
that being said there is actually too much to put into one chapter so there is another one being added fyi
I am not able to tag anymore people because tumblr is weird. Just know this story has a posting schedule you can find on the masterlist.
Each believed the other a murderer of time, a destroyer of life itself. - Joan Didion
One month later
"Do we have that wine that Tommy brought us?"
"Yeah, check above the fridge."Â
Itâs been almost a month since Jack and I moved into the apartment, long enough for the sharpness of change to dull into a steady rhythm.Â
My internship ended around the same time, the official reason for leaving Miller Brothers Â
Construction, and despite Tommyâs begging, I decided to try my hand at something new.
The new job is closer to the apartment, tucked inside a small but ambitious architecture firm where I juggle social media campaigns and light design work. My coworkers are all professional and sharp, their smiles brief and their workload heavy. It's nothing like Miller Brothers Construction. No laughs over shitty coffee, no Luna giggling with Tommy. I donât have the same level of responsibility but thereâs something exciting about learning again, about building a skill set I didnât know Iâd enjoy.
Still, there are mornings when I catch myself missing the hum of the old office. I miss the constant movement. I miss the way Tommyâs voice would carry across the bullpen when he wanted my opinion, the way Joel would glance up from whatever he was working on if I happened to walk past. I felt valued there, more than I probably realized at the time. But after that night after coming home and hearing Joel and Tess through the wall, the quiet that followed, the weight of pretending it hadnât happened, I couldnât go back.
Moving day had been stressful, not in the traditional sense, since we didnât have much to bring, but Joel told Jack heâd help with the move and by the time the mattress was wedged into the bed frame, my stomach had felt like it was full of cement.Â
The apartment had smelled like fresh paint and faint mildew, not enough to worry about, just enough to remind me that someone elseâs life had been here before ours. Sunlight spilled through the wide front windows, catching on dust motes drifting in the air. It was a fresh start for all of us.
Jack wiped his forehead with the bottom of his shirt, grinning like weâd just conquered something monumental.
âAlmost done,â heâd said voice buoyant.
Joel was on the other side of the mattress, adjusting the frame with quiet precision, eyes low. He didnât say anything, but his forearms flexed with the motion, veins standing out against skin flushed from the work.
We hadnât interacted since Houston, and the air between us had a weight. It had been there since the moment Jack announced we were leaving.
Iâd avoided being in a room alone with him all day, finding boxes that needed unpacking in the kitchen, disappearing into the bathroom with a roll of shelf liner. And yet, somehow, there we were always on the precipice of interaction.
âCareful on that corner, Dad,â Jack said to Joel, crouching to check the bed legs. âI donât wanna scratch the floor. The landlordâs a stickler.â
Joel nodded, wordless, his eyes flicking up to me for only a second. It wasnât much of a look, just a flash, barely enough to register, but it landed like a blow. My stomach had knotted, dragging me back to the night that ended the whole arrangement.
Joel straightened then, brushing his palms together, and stepped back from the bed. âThatâs it,â he said, voice low.
Jack clapped him on the shoulder. âCouldnât have done it without you, Dad. Thanks for letting us use the truck.â
âAnytime.â Joelâs gaze slid past Jack to me, his expression guarded. I couldnât tell if it was for my sake or his.
Jack headed toward the kitchen, muttering something about ordering pizza. âVeggie?â
Iâd nodded, but my voice didnât seem to work.
Joel stayed where he was, just inside the doorway, his hat shadowing his eyes. He looked like he was going to say something, lips parting but Jack called from the kitchen, asking about toppings, and the moment slipped.
âI should get goinâ,â Joel said instead, his voice carrying the faintest rasp. He adjusted the brim of his cap like it was something to keep his hands busy.
Jack reappeared, phone in hand. âSure? You canât stay? Weâre ordering enough for-â
âNaw.â Joel had already been moving toward the door, his boots heavy on the new laminate. âGot stuff to do for your mom.â
Iâd flinched, stepping aside as he passed, and for a fraction of a second, our arms nearly brushed. I caught the scent of sawdust and clean sweat, the smell of him, and my chest felt too tight.
Joel paused with his hand on the doorknob. He didnât look at me again, just stepped out into the fading afternoon. When the door closed behind him, the apartment felt silent. And in that quiet, it hit me how much stronger my feelings for him had grown.
It wasnât just the sex I remembered, though that alone would have been enough to haunt me. It was the way heâd kissed me like he meant it, held me like I was something worth keeping. The hours weâd spent talking, sometimes about nothing at all, the kind of conversations that made the rest of the world fade.
Those were the moments that had crept in without warning, the ones I couldnât box up and leave behind no matter how far we moved. And when I showered that evening I'd had to muffle my sobs in my hands, his name on my tongue, his voice in my ears.Â
Anne and Logan arrive just after seven, arms full; a bottle of wine, a paper bag from the bakery down the street, Anneâs cardigan already slipping off one shoulder from the rush of coming in from the evening air.
âWow,â Anne says, stepping inside and glancing around our small apartment. âYou guys settled in fast.â
Jack beams, taking the wine from her. âWe had no choice, someone refused to live with boxes everywhere,â he teases, tilting his head toward me.
I roll my eyes but smile anyway, ushering them toward the table I set earlier. Itâs nothing fancy, just mismatched placemats, a candle in the middle, but Iâd taken my time with it, wanting the place to look inviting.Â
Logan trails behind Anne, his usual sharp-edged sarcasm absent. âPlace is nice,â he says, pulling out a chair. âGood light.â Itâs such a small comment, but from him, it almost feels like a compliment. "Mind if I grab a glass of water?" He asks, moving to the cupboard to bring down one of our old mugs. He drinks fast, his eyes flicking to me once or twice.Â
We eat in easy bursts of conversation. Jack tells a story about the buildingâs temperamental elevator. Anne asks questions about my new job, polite ones, the kind that leave her a safe distance from anything personal. Her smile doesnât always reach her eyes, but itâs not icy.Â
After dinner, we break out a stack of board games. Jack suggests Codenames and Logan smirks like heâs already won. Since I'm sitting opposite him we're a team.Â
âYou two are going down,â Logan says to Jack and Anne as he places the cards down for the group.
I raise an eyebrow. âYouâre that confident?â
âAlways.â He smirks again, but itâs softer this time, not the jab it might have been months ago.Â
The game turns competitive quickly, Jack and Anne on one team, Logan and me on the other. Thereâs laughter, the occasional groan when someone misses an obvious clue, and even Loganâs muttered swears are more amused than annoyed.
At one point, when I get a particularly risky word right, Logan grins across the table at me. âNice. Told you weâd crush them.â
Anne leans back in her chair, shaking her head. âYou two make a scary team.â
By the time the last round ends, thereâs an ease in the air I didnât expect. The wine is nearly gone, the candle burned low. Even Anneâs smile looks less guarded as she gathers her things to leave.
âThanks for having us,â she says at the door, her tone almost warm.
Logan nods after her and to my surprise, pulls me in for a gentle hug. His fingertips linger on my shoulder and for the first time since we met, I feel like we might just be friends after all.Â
The dresser looked harmless enough in the shop, pale wood, clean lines, the kind of thing Jack nudged me about and says, This would look perfect in the bedroom, right? I nodded, imagining it against the blank wall by the window, a little piece of permanence in our still-new apartment.
Now it sits in its flat-pack box in the corner of the living room, a silent challenge weâve been stepping around for days. Jack finally slices the tape open, pulls out the thin booklet of instructions printed in six languages, and mutters under his breath.
âYeah, no,â he says, flipping a page. âWe donât have half the stuff for this.â
Iâm curled up on the couch with my laptop, half-listening, still tangled in work emails I didnât finish before leaving the office.
âIâll text my dad,â Jack says, dropping the booklet onto the coffee table. âHeâs got everything in his garage.â
I hum in response, barely looking up; I'm too involved in the email chain from one of my bosses. The cushions dip beside me. Jackâs hands slide up my shoulders, warm and firm, his thumbs kneading into the knots there.
âYouâve been tense lately,â he murmurs near my ear.
I tip my head back without thinking, eyes fluttering closed. Heâs been like this a lot lately, attentive in a way he never used to be. Folding laundry before I can get to it. Picking up my favorite snacks without asking. Asking about my day and actually listening.
Jack's hands leave me when his phone buzzes. He reads the text. "My mom wants to know if we're free for dinner this Sunday."Â
My chest tightens. Iâve been making up excuses for weeks, excuses to avoid going back to that house, to avoid seeing her, to avoid the awkward questions about my life, about Jack, all the while ignoring the mess Iâve made of everything.
"I'm not sure," I say quietly. "I'll see if I'm working late that day."
He smiles, kissing my cheek and then announcing that he and Logan are meeting up with some guys to try the new VR arcade.Â
"Have fun!"Â
He leaves and I stretch back on the couch feeling restless. We havenât been having much sex, but I donât mind. Heâs being so sweet and thoughtful. The only sex I want is with Joel, and I obviously canât have that anymore. I think about it, fantasize about it, and touch myself to it. I deleted all our texts and photos in my rage and some nights I regret it.Â
But then I look over at my sleeping boyfriend and feel this love crash over me. I tell myself I made the right decision, even if it does feel like a mistake.Â
Knock knock. Knock.Â
The knock comes later that night while Iâm half asleep on the couch. My mind is on Joel, thoughts of what he's doing right this moment. Is he with Tess? Are they happy? I shouldn't be upset at the thought.Â
I donât think much of it at first; Jack probably forgot his keys, or maybe one of his friends is swinging by early. Iâm halfway through setting the knife down when I open the door.
Itâs Luna. Her eyes are red-rimmed, makeup smudged just enough to make me realize she hasnât been home to fix it. Her shoulders look too small for the oversized blazer sheâs wearing, like sheâs shrunk into herself on the walk over.
âHey,â she says, voice thin. âIâm sorry, I didn- didnât know who else to talk to.â
My brain immediately switches gears. âHey," I push the door open wider. âCome in. Are you okay?â
She nods, but itâs that automatic, empty kind of nod that tells me she's the polar opposite of okay. The moment she steps inside, I catch the faint smell of office coffee on her clothes. She clutches her tote bag to her chest like its armor.
âSit,â I tell her, steering her toward the couch. I donât even wait for her to take her shoes off before Iâm heading to the kitchen. âTea?â
She sinks into the cushions, her knees drawn together, both hands wrapped around that bag like sheâs afraid if she lets go of it, sheâll fall apart.
âYes, please,â she murmurs.
While the kettle boils, I keep glancing over at her. Sheâs not looking at me, just staring at some point in the middle distance like sheâs trying to keep herself from crying again. When I bring over two mugs and set one in front of her, she thanks me in a whisper.
âWhatâs going on?â I ask gently, curling my own hands around my cup.
She takes a sip like sheâs buying herself time, then swallows hard. "It's Tommy."Â She takes a deep breath. "Okay, so, Iâve liked Tommy for a while. Pretty much since my first day.â
I nod slowly. âYeah. I know.â
"I think everyone did." She lets out a short, shaky laugh, but it dies quickly. âWell, right before the Houston conference I asked him out. Like, directly for drinks after work. No group thing, no pretending it was casual.â
I lean back, eyebrows lifting. âBold.â
âYeah,â she says, a little bitterly. âBold. He said yes. And we had such a good time. Laughing and kissing and then that night we-â She stops, eyes darting away. âWe hooked up. It was so good, so good. I figured this was it. He said he wanted to focus on the conference and that when he got back we'd talk.Â
âYou thought youâd ease into a relationship,â I supply gently.
âExactly.â She stares down into her tea. âSo I played it cool when he got back last month. Didnât text too much. Tried not to come across as clingy. I wanted him to feel like it was easy, you know?â
I nod, because I do know. Too well. I keep my expression neutral, just listening.
"But I noticed he was a little more aloof, a little colder," her fingers tighten on her mug. âAnd then today he came by the office.â Thereâs a shift in her voice, a small crack that tells me the worst is coming. âHe had this woman named Maria with him,â she says, like the name is something sour she has to spit out. âThe big wig at Whonstar."Â
"Yeah, I know her."
"He was so touchy with her and I was already like, huh, okay, thatâs new. But then as I'm leaving I saw them by his truck. Kissing.â
My stomach twists, because I can picture the scene too clearly.Â
Luna swallows hard. âApparently theyâve been dating in secret since that conference..." She trails off, pressing her lips together.
"Yeah, I had a feeling," I say carefully.
Her eyes snap to mine. "What?"
I shrug a little, wishing I could rewind the last five seconds. âI mean when they met at the conference, it was pretty obvious sparks.â
Her brows knit, a flush creeping up her cheeks, not embarrassment this time, but anger. âSo you knew.â
âI didnât know they were dating,â I say quickly. âI thought it was just-â
âYou thought it was what? That they were flirting? That Tommy might be into someone else?â Her voice is rising, each question sharper than the last. âAnd you didnât think to mention that to me?â
âLuna,â I start, leaning forward, âI didnât know you and Tommy had slept together. I thought it was a casual crush-â
Her laugh is short and humorless. âRight. A casual crush that you could watch crash and burn without saying a word.â
âThatâs not fair,â I say, heat prickling at my neck. âIf Iâd known-â
âYou've seen me throw myself at Tommy again and again,â she cuts in. âYou just let me make a complete idiot of myself.â
I bite back the instinct to defend myself again. Sheâs too wound up, too raw. Anything I say now will only pour fuel on it. She sets her mug down with a sharp clink, grabbing her tote bag. âThanks for the tea,â she says, voice clipped.
âLuna-â
"I sure hope you're not humiliated like this one day," she says spitefully my way. And just like that, sheâs at the door, yanking it open as Jackâs key turns in the lock. He steps inside, surprised to see her passing by.
âUh, hey,â he says, eyebrows lifting.
She barely glances at him. âHi. Bye.â
Jack turns to me, confused, as I shut the door behind her. I lean against the door for a moment, my chest heavy.
Jackâs voice is soft. âEverything okay?â
I just shake my head, my stomach heavy. âShe just needed to talk.â
I watch through the front window as Luna disappears down the street, her shoulders still hunched, and I feel the ache settle in for her. Because I know better than most what itâs like to think youâre starting something and realize you were only ever a momentary stop for someone else.
The next afternoon, Iâm driving home from work when Jackâs name flashes across my dashboard.
âHey,â I say, gripping the wheel a little tighter.
He sounds distracted, anxious. âBabe, I totally spaced, one of the guys at the clinic called in sick, so Iâve got to cover his last two patients and do the paperwork. I wonât be home for, like, another two hours.â
âThatâs fine,â I say, merging onto the main road. âIâll start dinner later.â
âThanks for understanding,â he says quickly. âSeriously, thank you, babe. Gotta go.â
The line clicks dead before I can respond.
By the time I get home, the apartment feels quiet in a way thatâs almost too loud. I curl up on the couch with a blanket and my book, but the words blur after a few pages. My mind keeps drifting back to the dresser, the rhythm of chopping vegetables I havenât started yet, the soft hum of traffic outside.
Eventually, I head to the kitchen to start dinner, deciding to put some aside for Jack to reheat when he gets home. The knife slices through vegetables in steady motions, the sound small and satisfying. Iâm halfway through chopping when thereâs a knock at the door.I wipe my hands on a towel, a teasing smile already forming.
âDid you forget your keys again?â I call, expecting Jackâs familiar sheepish grin. I pull the door open, ready with something playful. But itâs not Jack.Itâs Joel.
He stands in the hallway in a faded gray T-shirt under an open flannel, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair is mussed, as if heâs been running his hands through it, and the late light catches in the stubble along his jaw.
He holds a large metal toolbox in one hand, walking in with the easy confidence that always makes my chest tighten.
âHey,â he says casually, but thereâs an edge to it, like he knows exactly what heâs doing by standing there.
I swallow. âHi.â My voice is too soft. "Why are you-"
He shifts the toolbox slightly, brushing past me without waiting for an invitation. âJack asked me to drop these off. Dresser assembly, right?â
âYeah.â I try to sound casual, too casual, leaning against the doorframe. âThanks.â
Thereâs a pause, and then he tilts his head. My eyes track him as he notices the little things Iâve done: the small potted plant on the windowsill, the framed photo on the coffee table, the shelf Iâve managed to fill with books and mementos without making it look cluttered.
âThis looks real nice,â he says finally, voice low but genuine. His gaze flicks to mine for a moment, and thereâs a hesitation there, like heâs not sure he should be saying it.
"Thanks, Jack let me have free reign in here."
"You did a good job."
We lapse into silence and when he doesn't make a move to leave immediately I feel my chest tighten and impulsively, I gesture toward the kitchen. "Want something to drink? Water, beer?â
âWaterâs fine,â he says, still careful, still just a little stiff around me. I'm shocked he agreed to it.Â
I grab a bottle and pour it into a glass, setting it in his hand. His fingers brush mine briefly, light, casual, but enough to make a small pulse of electricity spike through me.Â
I hand him the glass of water, and he takes it, fingers brushing mine again. âThanks,â he says, eyes flicking to mine, then quickly away.
âSo,â I say, leaning against the counter. âHowâs the Leeds project going? Still a mess?â
He laughs softly, shaking his head. âYou have no idea. Luna's convinced that sheâs in line for a promotion already.â
I raise an eyebrow. âLuna? Really? Sheâs got ambition, Iâll give her that.â
âAmbition is one thing,â Joel says, leaning against the counter opposite me. âDelusion is another.â He shrugs. âBut I guess sheâs learning.â
I smile, amused. âSounds like the office hasnât changed a bit.â
He grins faintly. âTommy is barely any help some days. Every time Maria stops by the office he's like a puppy following her around.â
âHe must really like her," I murmur, wincing as I think of Luna. âPeople act ridiculous when they like someone."Â
Thereâs a beat of quiet, the kind that settles between old lovers. Then he nods toward the bedroom where the dresser components sit. âYou know I could just build it myself,â he says, casual, but I can see the slight edge in his tone.
I open my mouth to protest, but before I can, heâs shrugging off his flannel, sleeves rolling up. The tool belt shifts with the motion, and I catch the pinch of his waist. My chest tightens, but I force my attention back to our conversation.
"Uh, sure, if you have time."Â
"I got time."Â
I lead him into the bedroom, feeling suddenly shy. The rumpled bedsheets, the water glasses beside the bed, Jack's socks by the hamper. It's all so intimate and I watch Joel note this before his attention goes to the dresser.Â
Joelâs eyes flick to mine briefly, then back to the dresser parts spread on the floor. âYou don't have to stay if you don't want."
"You want me to go?"Â
"No,â he says too quickly and my stomach flips. âi mean, you can stick around if you want to, but if you're busy-"
"I'm not busy."Â
It's a lie and we both know it. My dinner is half cooked outside the door. He shrugs, eyes lingering on mine just a moment longer than necessary, then bends down to examine the dresser pieces again.
Thereâs a quiet confidence in the way he moves, a familiarity in the way he handles tools, and I realize how much I want to touch him. Joel crouches, sorting screws and panels with methodical precision. I hover nearby, trying not to watch too closely, but I canât help it, the way his muscles flex when he lifts the heavier pieces, the way his forearms glint in the late afternoon light.
The apartment is quiet except for the small sounds of the toolbox and the faint rustle of papers and plastic. I canât look at him without feeling that same electric tension I always do when he's near.Â
âYou happy at your new job?" he asks suddenly, not looking at me, just fitting a dowel into a slot.
"Yeah."Â
He pauses, just a fraction, then shrugs and mutters, âGood. Thatâs good to hear.â
His fingers move quickly, almost nervously, tightening a screw. Then, quieter, almost to himself, he adds, âI miss having you around in the office, though. S'not the same without you there.â
My stomach twists. The words are casual, but they land hard. I can feel my heart stutter, the old, bitter-sweet ache flaring up, the same ache I remember from the night I heard him and Tess through the wall.Â
The memory hits me sharply, the warmth of his hands, the weight of his body, the sound of his voice carrying over everything. You're mine. Tell me your mineÂ
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, forcing a smile that doesnât reach my eyes. âSometimes I miss the chaos of the place,â I say softly, and immediately wish Iâd said nothing.
He glances up, one eyebrow quirking. âChaos?â
I shrug, fiddling with a kitchen towel. âLuna's antics around the office, Tommy's bad jokes.â
You and me fighting the attraction I still feel for you now. You and me fucking over your desk.
Joel nods slowly, returning to the dresser. Thereâs a tension between us now, the kind that hums under the surface. We don't speak for a bit and Joel builds quickly, his focus fascinating me.Â
My chest tightens whenever he bends over the dresser, the curve of his back just slightly exposed, the strength in his hands as he manipulates the tools. I tell myself to focus on Jack, to focus on the life I have here, but itâs useless.Â
He's almost finished when he talks again, so quietly I almost don't hear him. "And you're happy. With your life?"Â
I can feel the old flutter of feelings creeping in, the ones Iâve tried to ignore for months. "Yeah."Â
Joel crouches over the dresser, tightening a screw to affix the mirror in place and without looking at me, he asks, his voice casual but insistent. "Jack makes you happy?â
"He does."Â
Joel's mouth tightens as he fixates on the dresser. "Good," he says coolly. "That's real good. Me and Tess are doin' good too."Â
Something in me snaps when he says that. The calm Iâve been holding shatters, replaced by a hot, sharp anger I canât contain. My hands clench at my sides. "Well that's good," I say with false cheer. "Glad to know she's back to fucking you."Â
Joel freezes mid-motion, his eyes snapping to mine. âWhat did you just say?â
I take another step, letting the words cut. âI mean, before, she barely touched you, right? I guess its good we moved out. Now you guys can have a second honeymoon. Is she all over you like before?â
Joelâs face goes quiet, but the tension radiates off him like heat. Thereâs a sharp edge to his eyes, the kind that makes me take a small, instinctive step back even as I try to hold my ground. âAnd Iâm supposed to believe Jack is fuckin' you properly?â His voice is low, dangerous. âCouldnât even make you cum before."Â
He stops, gripping the dresser like itâs the only thing keeping him steady.
I press, watching him. âWell, he does now,â I say, a vicious tilt to my smile. âFucks better than his old man, now.â
He straightens slowly, jaw tight, every movement deliberate, and for a heartbeat, the room feels smaller, the tension impossible to ignore Heâs close now, but not touching, and every instinct screams at me, both to retreat and to push him further.
Joel sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, his heavy stare fixed on me. âIs that so?â
âIt is.â
His hand shoots out, surprising me when he curls it around my upper arm. I gasp when he drags me to the bed, pushing me to bend over the side, my chest flushed with the sheets. I hear the sound of his belt being unbuckled, the hum of his zipper.Â
"He's... He's going to be back soon," I hiss, terrified of being caught, terrified at the thought of stopping.Â
"Then he can see me fuckin' what's mine,â he mutters angrily as he pushes my jeans down my legs, thrusting my panties to the side. And without preamble he thrusts into me, his cock thick, but easily taken because I am so fucking wet.
âI-Iâm not yours,â I whimper.
"Think you are mine," Joel grunts, hips smacking rudely against my ass. "Think this cunt's been mine since the first time I fucked it."
My hands are gripping the sheets, body being thrust up the bed by the force of him. His teeth grit together as he thrusts, his balls slapping against my ass brutally.n "I don't like seein' you with him." He mutters to himself but I hear it.
I look over my shoulder at him, feeling my heartbeat everywhere. He groans, deep and ragged, the sound vibrating through me, and I see the flicker of anger in his eyes, anger at himself, at the situation, at how badly heâs unraveling
 "What?"
"I don't like him touchin' you. I had to sit there and watch him take you away. Had to listen to you cumming. I'm fuckin furious that he's just allowed to touch you like that in front of me."Â
I glare at him over my shoulder, chest rising and falling against the mattress, my own anger and frustration matching his. "He's my boyfriend, Joel."Â
"I don't give a shit," he snaps quietly. "When you're with me, my cock in your cunt, your mine."
He's so deep, filling me, and I have to remind myself that we agreed this was just physical. No strings, just desire. And yet when Joel's hands pull me back and he buries himself to the hilt I can't help but moan his name.Â
"Look at me."
I look over my shoulder weakly, whimpering when I see the feral look in his eyes.Â
âSay I'm the best you've ever had,â he growls, breath hot against my shoulder, the words low and rough, but urgent. âBetter than him. Better than Jack.âÂ
I swallow hard, my eyes rolling back as he fucks into me. I shouldn't say it. I shouldn't. The wet sound of his cock pumping into my cunt is overwhelming.Â
He gives a furious growl, dragging me up onto the bed and positioning me on all fours opposite the dresser he's just built, the mirror propped on top of it. His hips slam into mine with a sharp snap. When my eyes graze the view of us in the mirror I can see us half dressed, cheeks pink, eyes glazed. Joel is staring down at me and then his wide hand goes between my shoulders to push me down. Â
My cheek is buried in the sheets, my eyes over my shoulder at him. His eyes are dark, intense, searching, and I catch that spark of competitiveness, that edge Iâve never seen so raw.
He lets out a low, frustrated growl, "You're mine. You're fucking mine," biting down on his lower lip, as if my words are both a balm and a torment. And then he thrusts harder, faster, wanting proof, wanting to feel it in every shiver that wracks my body.Â
I'm drooling, actually drooling, my eyes tilted back, my arms useless at my sides. I'm just a vessel, a thing for him to fuck his frustrations into and I welcome it. I need it more than I need to breathe in this moment.Â
I'm his. I'm his. I'm his.Â
"Oh darlinâ," he says with a mix of dark amusement and desire, "just letting me use this perfect cunt. Because she's mine, isn't it she?"Â
When I donât answer he shifts, suddenly more insistent, pressing deeper, as if heâs testing something, not just his control, but me. His hands clutch my hips, holding me in place as he leans closer, his forehead brushing my neck.Â
"Good girl. Good girl takin' my cock."
My body shivers at the words, heat pooling between us, and I whine his name half in need, half in awe of how commanding he is.
"Look at yourself," he orders angrily. "Look at that fucking little slut in the mirror droolinâ like a bitch in heat. You're telling me that this cock isn't the best you've ever had?"Â
When I don't look I feel his hand weave through my hair, pulling my face up to watch as my body is at his mercy. His eyes glitter menacingly. I can barely focus on the mirror, he's thrusting so hard and it feels so good. I can make out his hulking frame over mine, the way he's on one knee, the other foot planted for extra power. I can see it in his eyes heâs unraveling, but he wants to know, needs to know, that heâs the one I choose, the one I want.
His large hand moves down my belly, between my legs where my clit strains, twitching at the contact of his fingers. He scrubs at it, knowing just how much pressure, just how much circling to apply before Iâm trembling.
Joelâs rhythm grows harsher, deeper, his grip on me iron-tight like heâs holding on for dear life. Each thrust slams me further up the bed, pillows pushed to the floor.Â
"This pretty pussy mine?"
I can't think, I'm so close to cumming. He holds my waist, watching my reflection to see my tits bounce under my shirt, then down to where he's sawing in and out of my soaked cunt. His teeth are bared, he looks crazed.
âSay it.â
I'm trying not to say it out loud. Trying to remember Jack and that this is his dad and that he's married and... He's mine.Â
"Yes," I finally cry out, pushing myself to my elbows as he drives into me.Â
"Who fucks you the way you need?"
"You, Joel." My orgasm comes on strong, my arms and legs trembling. "F-fuck, you're the best I've ever had."Â
He's pumping in and out of me at a frantic pace, the wet of our slapping sexes so loud and I cum all over him, almost screaming his name as he keeps pumping. I hear the breathless chuckle, and when I can finally drag my eyes to the mirror I see his boyish smile, victorious.
"I knew it."Â
I squeak when he pulls out, twisting me onto my back and burying himself in me at this angle, his arms coming to hold me, palms spread wide against my shoulder blades.Â
"Say it again."
"You're the best I've ever had."
His mouth slams into mine and I feel the brush of his tongue, tentative but probing. Itâs an electric shock, a fire that spreads from my mouth down my chest. My own lips part, meeting his, responding instinctively, and a soft sound escapes me.Â
He hums against me, a low, vibrating sound that sinks straight into my ribs, making my heartbeat stutter as he pushes himself deeper and deeper. He groans into my neck, hips still pounding, but I can feel him listening.
"Who do you belong to?"
My breathing is coming out in low puffs, voice trembling. "M-my pussy belo-"
"No, all of you," he interrupts, forehead to mine. "All of you."Â
His hips move slowly now, intense and drawn out. His eyes hold like as he sinks into me, our hearts beating in tandem. And suddenly the fire of my anger is gone. I wrap my legs around his middle, mouth meeting his gently.
"I'm yours," I whisper against his lips. Â
"Yeah?" He grunts and I feel the pace pick up. But it's not brutal like before, it's tender, like he can't stop touching me, bringing out my whimpers. "You're mine?"
"Y-yes," I moan, feeling his mouth at my throat.Â
Something shifts in him, the strain in his jaw, the way his thrusts deepen, like heâs chasing something more than just release. His hand comes up to grip my chin, forcing my eyes to his.
"Repeat it," he murmurs. "Say it again, baby. Say it with my cock in you."Â
"I'm yours," I moan, body jerking under him, fingers wrapping around his biceps. "Yours, Joel."
He lets out a deep, broken groan, his forehead pressing to mine, hips hammering in a pace that makes my whole body tense toward the edge.
"I fuckin' love this'," he groans, kissing me deeply as he holds me to him. "Fuckin' love this cunt, fucking love you-"
It comes out as a ramble but once we both hear it his movements slow to a stop. My eyes are wide, staring up at him. My legs lower, parted on either side of his hips as he pulls out of me.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, tucking himself back into his jeans, hurriedly redoing his belt. "I'm sorry darlin', I didn't..."
"It's okay," I say with a forced laugh. But something is happening in my stomach. Something that feels dangerously like hope and desire. Â
He looks at me for a long time, before he flops onto the bed next to me. I lift my hips, tugging up my jeans as I look at him. My clothes feel awkward on my skin, clinging in places that remind me of what we were just doing, how fast we stopped
"Joel, really, it's fine."Â
Heâs quiet for a while, staring up at the ceiling like thereâs something written there just for him. I think about how Tess is at home waiting for him. About how this is how it always is, his little fuck-toy when heâs horny. His eyes flick to mine, dark and unreadable, and I canât tell if heâs going to argue, apologize, or pull me back under him.
"I hated hearing you with her,â I burst out, voice low but trembling.
Joel freezes and blinks over at me, confusion and surprise flickering across his face. âWhat are you talkinâ about?â
I can feel my chest tightening, the old ache twisting into something fiercer. "That night we came home from the conference I heard you and Tess in bed. I hated it. I hated it so much.â
His expression shifts slowly, comprehension dawning, but thereâs also that tension I know too well, the quiet, uncomfortable pause when he realizes what I heard. âI didnât know you heard,â he says carefully, voice low. "I didn't know you were there."Â
âObviously. Why would you?â My voice cracks with frustration and longing both. âYou we're so busy hating me that day. And what I still can't understand is why."Â Â
The words hang in the air sour and heavy, when I push myself upright. The mattress dips under my shifting weight, the blanket crumpling beneath my palms as I shove it aside. My knees fold under me as I swing around to sit cross-legged, facing him fully now.
I can feel the heat in my face, the way my heartbeat is lodged high in my throat. Anger makes my movements sharper, more deliberate, shoulders squared, chin lifted. Iâm not hiding it. Not from him.
"Why you would be so upset with Jack and me when you were so eager to run home to Tess and remind me that she was yours?" hate how my voice tremors. "Why demand that I tell you I'm yours tonight? Is that just your preferred dirty talk?"
Joelâs eyes follow me warily, his brow knitting, and after a beat, he moves too. He sits up slow, like heâs bracing himself, one forearm resting on his thigh while the other hand scrubs at the back of his neck.Â
Weâre both upright now, face-to-face in the dim light, and the space between us feels smaller than it did lying down. I stop myself from saying more. From saying what I really want. That i want him like that. That i think I might be falling for him. But instead I lean into the anger, the heartbreak, the unspoken desire.Â
Joel swallows, his jaw tight. The flannel he shrugged off earlier now seems like armor, the edges of his mouth pulled in. Finally, his voice is low, deliberate. âThat night I was pretending she was you.â
I freeze. "What?" The sheet bunches between us, an uneven line, like some kind of physical border. His posture is tense, chest rising and falling heavier now, jaw working.Â
âTess was all over me when I got home that night and," His voice falters for just a second, and then he forces it out. "I'd had to listen to you and Jack that night before."Â
My face burns. "It didn't mean anything."Â
"Yeah, wellâŠ" Joel shrugs. "I was hurt and she was touchin' me and wanted me in bed. But I couldn't stop thinking about you the whole time."
I blink at him, shocked, trying to wrap my mind around what heâs saying. The rawness of it catches me off guard, my chest tightening in a mix of disbelief and that old ache I thought Iâd buried.
His anger comes next, a rush of emotion I canât ignore. "I couldnât stop thinking how wrong it was, fucking my wife and feelin' guilty about it. That I wanted to be buried in my son's girlfriend instead."Â
My breathing stutters.
"I couldn't get you out of my head," he says in a rasp. "And when I was fuckin' her I said all the things I'd been wantinâ to say to you because I felt like you were mine that weekend."
He's blinking rapidly now and I can see the sheen to his eyes.Â
"You were mine," he continues broken, "and I couldnât- God, I couldnât do anything when he took you away. I still can't do anything even though goddamn it, you still feel like mine.â
The words hit me like a punch, every muscle in my body tightens, every nerve alight and without thinking I've crawled over the mattress us and crushed my mouth to his.Â
He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me into his lap as the kiss deepens. Tears are falling from my eyes as his tongue caresses mine, a groan escaping him. The sound sends a shiver up my spine.Â
"I've missed you so much, darlin'," he says huskily. "I just don't work without you."Â
"I've missed you more," I sniffle, snuggling into his arms.Â
And just when I think that this beautiful moment might finally allow me to lay bare everything I feel I hear the key hit the lock to the front door.Â
Joelâs arms loosen around me instantly, the warmth between us splintering into panic. We move without speaking, just a flash of eye contact and then weâre both on our feet. The bed creaks as we push off of it, and I nearly trip on the edge of the blanket, catching myself on the dresser.
Joel ducks low, crouching beside me in the narrow space between the bed and the wall, his broad shoulders hunched, breathing shallow. I can hear the faint hitch of it, can feel the pulse of adrenaline in the air.
Jackâs keys jingle as he sets them down on the counter. âHey, babe. I brought dinner.â
My heart is slamming against my ribs. I force my voice into something light, casual, like my pulse isnât a drumbeat in my ears. âIn here,â I call; tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear like that could erase what we were just doing.
Joelâs gaze flicks to me and for a second I think heâs going to say something. Instead, he stays crouched, still as stone, listening. Jackâs footsteps approach down the hall, slow and unhurried, each one making my stomach knot tighter.
Joel shifts subtly, angling himself so the dresser blocks most of him from view, his shoulders drawing in, knees bent. Heâs close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that if I moved an inch, Iâd brush against him again.
Jack appears in the doorway, holding a takeout bag, smiling like nothing in the world is out of place. âHey,â he says, leaning his shoulder against the frame. âI just needed the tools, not the whole thing built.âÂ
"Wanted to surprise you," Joel says with a weak smile. "Your girl here was a big help."Â
His fingers brush my lower back and I have to force a small smile. âYour dad was very patient," My voice sounds almost normal, but my fingers are curled tight against the side of the dresser.Â
His eyes sweep over me but donât linger, thank God. Joel stays perfectly still, head bowed just enough that the shadow hides his face. I can feel his restraint thrumming like a live wire.
"Well I got Chinese and lots of it," jack says with a grin. "You wanna stay dad?"
"Naw, you two enjoy your date night."
"You sure?"
"Positive."Â
He turns away, footsteps retreating. Only when we hear the faint rustle of the takeout bag being opened do I release the breath I didnât realize I was holding. Joelâs eyes lift to mine, and in that silent moment, itâs clear weâre both thinking the same thing, how close that was, and how badly we still want what we just had to stop.
"When can I see you again?" he murmurs quietly as he begins to pack up his tools.Â
"I don't know," I whisper glancing over my shoulder and back. "Maybe after work Monday?"
Joel shakes his head slowly, eyes on me. "Can't wait that long."Â
My heart hiccups, a bloom in my chest until I hear Jack calling my name.
"Dinners served!"Â
The two of us walk back down the hall, Joel's knuckle stroking my spine until we enter into the kitchen. We drift into the kitchen like nothingâs wrong, like Joel wasnât in my bedroom three minutes ago. Jack is already at the counter, unpacking cartons of Chinese food, the smell of sesame oil and ginger curling through the air.
Joel leans against the opposite counter, casual on the surface, one ankle hooked over the other. âSmells good,â he says, nodding toward the spread.
âPlace on Main,â Jack replies, opening a carton of lo mein. âFigured you could use a break from cooking, babe.â He glances at me with that easy smile before reaching for plates.
Joelâs mouth twitches, just barely, as he folds his arms. âYeah, she worked hard today,â he says evenly.
Jack chuckles, spooning rice onto one plate, then another. âAnd you? Keepinâ busy?â
âAlways,â Joel answers. âCouple projects on the go. Weatherâs been fightinâ me, but, part of the job.â
Jack nods, turning to hand me my plate. As he does, he leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek, his hand brushing my hip. I catch the flicker in Joelâs expression, the tight pull at the corner of his mouth, the way his eyes drop for a second before he schools his face back into polite neutrality.
Jack doesnât notice. Heâs already moving back to the counter, scooping generous helpings of beef and broccoli. âYou sure?"
âNah, Iâm good,â Joel says, but his voice is clipped, polite in a way that feels practiced. His gaze meets mine for the briefest second, sharp, unreadable, before flicking back to the cartons.
"Tess wanted me to check if you two're comin' for dinner this Sunday?" Joel remarks casually, like it's not a huge deal, like it's not just an excuse to see each other.Â
"What do you think?" Jack asks, deferring to me. I bite back my grin, nodding.
That Sunday Jack and I pull up in front of Tess and Joelâs place just as the daylight fades into an amber glow.  I balance the cookie tin in one hand while Jack grabs the flowers we picked up on the way, his mood relaxed, his grin easy. He's excited we're going tonight. He keeps talking about how he's missed his mom's cooking.Â
Tess opens the door before we even knock dressed beautiful, her smile wide. âThere they are!â she says, bright and warm, pulling me into a hug first, then Jack. âI swear, itâs been too quiet without you here. I keep turning on the TV just to feel better.â
I smile into her shoulder, a little breathless from her enthusiasm. âWeâve missed you too.â
Jack hugs her tightly, handing her the flowers. Over Tessâs shoulder, I spot Joel in the kitchen doorway. He doesnât move right away, just watches us with his hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans.
âHey,â he says finally, his voice low, and he nods at Jack before letting his gaze drag over to me. It lingers just long enough that my stomach flips.
Before I can think too much about it, Tess adds, âOh! Tommy and Maria will be here soon, but Bill and Frank are already settling in."
"Bill and Frank are here?" Jack says delighted. "When did they get back?"
"Last week."Â
I glance toward the living room, and sure enough, Bill and Frank, the couple who live two doors down, are laughing over something at the couch. I think k remember Tess mentioning something about them being travelers. Apparently they were in Vietnam for a few months.Â
Relief warms me. More people means more buffer for whatever Joel and I are tiptoeing around. I hand off the cookies, which Tess coos over like Iâve just given her a precious gift. âCâmon in, itâs all just about ready,â she says, leading us toward the dining room.
As we pass Joel, I catch the faintest shift of his head toward me, not enough to be obvious to anyone else, but enough that my skin heats. I let Jack go ahead, using the moment to angle my body closer to Joelâs. My arm brushes his as I pass.
âHey,â I murmur, too soft for anyone else to hear.
His eyes flick to my mouth, and then back up. âNice dress.â
The dining table is already buzzing. Tess has pulled out the good plates, the cloth napkins, the pitcher of sweet tea sweating on a trivet. Bill and Frank are chatting quietly at the far end, and I spot Tommy and Mariaâs car pulling up outside. Itâs crowded, yes, but it feels lively, like the house is finally the place itâs meant to be.
âSouthern cooking night,â Tess says proudly, motioning to the platters. âFried chicken, mashed potatoes, biscuits, I even made collard greens, Jack, your favorite.â
âThanks Momâ Jack says, grinning, already reaching for the tea.
We sit; Tess at one end, Jack beside her, me across from him, and Joel opposite Tess. That puts Joel and me diagonally across from each other; far enough apart to be safe but close enough that if I angle my knee just rightâŠ
Tommy and Maria and Frank and Bill round out the rest of the large table and I introduce myself to the latter, answering the same boring questions everyone asks someone new. Tess starts talking about the neighborsâ recent gardening projects, Bill chiming in with some joke about Frankâs herb garden, and Jack laughing at everything with that easy charm I love.Â
The conversation hums around me, but my attention is snagged on Joelâs hands as he passes the biscuits down the table. Strong, deliberate, the way his thumb presses briefly into the rim of the plate before h
We eat and talk about nothing; Tommy and Maria arrive midway through, laughing about their parking misadventures, and suddenly the table is alive, full of voices and shifting plates.Â
The air feels warm, almost heavy, the scent of fried food mixing with the faint cologne Joel must have put on. At one point, Jack leans forward to say something to Tess, and I take the chance to run the side of my foot slowly up Joelâs shin. His jaw tightens mid-sentence, but he doesnât look at me.
When dessert comes, pecan pie Tess insists we have room for; Joel finally meets my eyes again. The look he gives me is dark, promising. After dinner, Tess shoos us away from helping with the dishes. âGo sit out back, enjoy the evening air. Iâll just rinse these and join you.â
Jack heads toward the sliding door, but I hang back under the pretense of refilling my tea. Joel is standing at the counter, drying his hands, the muscle in his forearm flexing. I step past him, my hip grazing his.
âBathroom,â I murmur.
His mouth tilts, but he doesnât look at me. âMeet you there.â
Jack calls my name from outside, and I force myself to move away, my pulse still thudding from the way his gaze had followed me even without turning his head. I carry the tea out, sit beside Jack, smile when Tess joins us, and Tommy and Maria take the chairs next to Bill and Frank.Â
Joel remains inside, the radio on, the space lively, the ghost of his touch lingering like an unspoken call, even in the midst of this lively, crowded table.
"Just going to use the washroom," I say to Jack, excusing myself.Â
Everyone is so deep in conversation, they don't even notice when I slip away. I make sure I keep my steps measured, my walk casual.Â
But when the bathroom door comes into view I hurry towards it. Joel opens the door and grabs me around the waist, tugging me inside as he hears my approach.Â
The door closes behind him and he's already on me,
The door closes behind him and he's already on me. I can still hear the faint clink of cutlery on dessert plates. Joel doesnât waste a second, his hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back as his mouth claims mine. Itâs not gentle, it's needy, it's hungry.Â
I grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, my back hitting the counter. His hips press into mine like heâs trying to fuse us together.
âFuck, I've missed you,â he murmurs against my lips, his breath hot and uneven.
"You too," I whisper between kisses. My skin is scorching everywhere he touches it.
"You in that dress made me so fuckin hard',â he says, his voice a low growl against my ear. âKnew I was gonna ruin it before the night was over.â
My pulse hammers in my throat. âWe donât have long,â I whisper, breathless.
âThen stop talkinâ,â he mutters, spinning me so my stomach meets the edge of the counter. My hands splay against the cool surface as he steps in behind me, his chest flush to my back.
Our eyes meet in the mirror, his dark, focused; mine already glassy. He drags his hands slowly up my sides, under my breasts, pausing to squeeze before sliding down to grip my hips.
âLook at you,â he says, low and deliberate, his mouth brushing my ear. âAll worked up just from me beinâ close. You want me that bad?â
I nod, biting my lip, the sight of us in the mirror making my knees weaken. I came in here for a kiss, maybe a light grope. But when he bends me over the sink, my face inches from the glass; I don't fight him on it.Â
âSay it,â he orders.
âI want you.â
His grin is sinful. âLetâs make sure you remember how much.âÂ
His palm flattens between my shoulder blades, bending me forward until my stomach meets the countertop. My hands splay on the cool surface, catching faint tremors in my own grip. He pushes my skirt up, bunching it over my hips, and drags my panties down in one slow, deliberate pull. The air brushes the heat between my thighs, sending a shiver through me.
"We both need this, baby."Â
He tosses my panties onto the counter and they land next to the sink, clearly soaked with my arousal. Joel steps in close, crowding me into the counter, his cock thick and hard against my ass even through his pants. A sound slips from my throat before I can stop it, too loud. His hand slides up and covers my mouth, big and warm, sealing me in darkness and heat.
âShh,â he warns softly, right against my ear. âYou gotta keep quiet or they'll hear. You don't want Jack to find his daddy knuckles deep in his girlfriend.â My pussy clenches brutally around him, trying to milk him. I hear his low chuckle. "Yeah, that's what I thought."Â
His fingers find me without hesitation, sliding through the wetness with a filthy, obscene sound. âChrist,â he mutters. âSoaked already. You know why?â
I bite my lip.
âBecause I fuck you how you need,â he answers himself. âI know every little thing that makes you fall apart.â Two fingers push inside me, curling up in that way that makes my knees weaken. His thumb brushes my clit, slow and steady, his other hand braced on my hip to hold me still. âYouâre already clenching,â he murmurs, chest pressed to my back now. âLike youâre trying to pull me in deeper.â
He keeps working me with maddening patience, each curl of his fingers hitting just right, each rub of his thumb a little firmer than the last.Â
My gaze snags on the mirror, and for a second I almost donât recognize myself. My mouth is slack, lips parted in uneven gasps, eyes glassy and unfocused from how hard Joel is driving into me. My cheeks are flushed deep, damp strands of hair clinging to my temples. I make a whining noise behind his palm and his eyes darken in the mirror at the sound.
âI know, honey,â he mutters, kissing the spot just below my ear before sucking lightly. "Feels good in her, doesn't it? He missed her."
I whimper a quiet yes, watching my body jostling under his movements.Â
He smirks faintly, eyes dark and certain. âNo one makes you cum like I do; no one makes you act like such a little slut.â His hand between my legs moves again, coaxing me back toward the edge. âTheyâd lose their fuckinâ minds if they knew what we were doin' in here.â
The words send a shiver down my spine, heat pooling low in my belly. He presses his mouth to my neck, the kiss soft but the hold on my hips firm, possessive.
Every thrust rocks my body forward, my breasts swaying, skin glowing under the light. My spine curves instinctively, hips rolling to meet him, and the mirror catches every ripple of motion, the arch of my back, and the drop of my jaw when he hits a really good spot.Â
My eyes flutter closed, head tilting back against his shoulder as my thighs start to tremble.
âThatâs it,â he whispers. âI could make you cum just like this, couldn't I? My fingers in your cunt, my hand over your pretty mouth.â
Iâm close already, shamefully close, my hips starting to roll into his touch. He feels it and pulls away. I make a muffled, desperate sound into his palm. His chuckle is low, smug. The rustle of fabric as he shoves his pants down. Then the heavy, hot weight of him nudging at my entrance.
âBreathe for me,â he murmurs, and pushes in slow, inch by inch, stretching me until heâs seated deep. My eyes roll back, a muffled moan spilling into his palm.
âYeah,â he rasps, hips pressing flush to mine. âThatâs it.â
He starts slow, deep thrusts that grind me into the counter, every push making a slick, wet sound that only he can hear over my breathing. His hand never leaves my clit, rubbing in tight, controlled circles that have my thighs quivering.
âYou feel that?â His voice is ragged now. âThatâs me filling you up, giving you exactly what you need, what you've been missin'."
I whimper loudly behind his hand.Â
âShh,â he murmurs into my hair, his lips brushing my ear. âGotta be quiet, baby.â
I nod, my fingers curling against the counter, my knees threatening to give. Heâs still for a moment, letting me feel every inch of him, then he starts to move again, short, urgent thrusts that make the mirror rattle faintly against the wall.
The reflection is almost more intense than the feeling; my flushed cheeks, his broad chest pressed to my back m. His eyes never leave mine in the glass.
âLook at you,â he whispers, voice low and thick. âTaking me so good, like you were made for it.â
I bite down on my lip to stop the sound that rises in my throat. His mouth finds my neck, open-mouthed kisses trailing down to my shoulder. Itâs not just lust, itâs something softer buried in the urgency, his lips lingering even as his hips keep their frantic pace.Â
When he finally takes his hand from my mouth, my breath comes in ragged gasps
His hand slides down from my mouth and to my neck, coaxing my jaw up, forcing me to look at my reflection. I look wrecked, mascara smudged around my eyes, eyes glassy. My tits jerk as Joel fucks into me from behind.Â
And then Joel comes into view behind me, his expression raw and unhinged. His jaw is taut, teeth bared in a fierce, almost feral grimace as he buries himself into me, eyes dark with hunger and obsession.Â
"Gonna cum in her tonight, baby," he whispers shakily. "You're gonna have to sit out there stuffed full."Â
Thereâs a heat in his gaze that feels like itâs drilling into me even as his body moves with brutal rhythm, shoulders rippling with each thrust, biceps flexing, chest rising and falling rapidly. The veins in his arms and neck stand out, taut under skin thatâs slick with sweat, showing how completely heâs lost himself in the motion.
I watch the rise and fall of his back in the mirror, every hard thrust sending him deeper, his hands gripping me, one bracing my hips, the other tangled in my hair. His movements are chaotic and precise all at once, a storm of need I canât tear my eyes from.
"Look at this fuckin' body," he groans, unable to stop running his hands along my torso. "So tight n' soft. Sweet ass clappin', all for me."Â
Joel however looks in control, one hand on my hip, the other still wrapped around my neck. He smiles feral at my reflection, his hips and thighs flexing as he pumps into me. I can't keep watching how needy I look, my eyes closing sharply, but Joel's voice washes over me, making me moan.Â
"Nobody fucks you like I do, do they? Only want this cock, don't you sweetheart?â he breathes in, inhaling my perfume, my sweat.Â
"Y-yeah," I groan.
The sound of forks on plates outside, laughter carrying in through the walls, it all blurs. Thereâs only this. Him. The mirror. The impossible urgency of wanting him now, consequences be damned.
His pace changes, slower but the thrusts are deep, deliberate, like heâs trying to brand me from the inside. The sharp smack of skin against skin turns into a low, steady rhythm, each movement dragging a moan from my throat I barely manage to swallow.
âYeah,â he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear, his breath hot and uneven. âThatâs better. Feel every inch of me, baby.â
My eyes are half-lidded, hooded with heat, mouth opening and closing in ragged gasps I can hear echoing back from the glass. Every sharp intake of breath, every whimper, is mine and not mine all at once, a reflection of how undone I am.
âYouâre mine,â he whispers, the words almost reverent but still laced with heat. âDoesnât matter whoâs out there; doesnât matter where we are, this-â another hard thrust, his voice rough, â-is mine.â
My eyes lock with his in the mirror, my lips parted, and my body pliant under his grip. We hear movement in the house and even though we continue to thrust we go quiet with Joel's hand covering my mouth.Â
âQuiet,â he warns again, a quick kiss to my temple. âYou want everyone catchin' us? Seein' you bent over getting fucked by a married man?.â
I canât think about the backyard, the laughter, the clink of forks. Thereâs only him, the way his breathing grows rougher, the way his hips snap against mine, the way his thumb strokes slow circles over my stomach in stark contrast to the pace of his thrusts.
âYouâre my girl,â he says, almost a growl now. âAlways gonna be.â
The mirror trembles slightly with each thrust, and my own reflection feels like someone else entirely, someone lost in the way Joel is claiming me.Â
"Whose girl are you?"
"Yours," I whisper. "Yours, Joel."Â
"Yeah," he pants, smiling against my cheek. "You're mine."Â
His hand slides up from my hip to cover my stomach, holding me flush to him as he sinks in again, slow and devastating. I can feel the thrum of his heartbeat against my back. His mouth is at my ear, eyes never leaving mine in the mirror.Â
"Keep quiet, baby, I can hear those little whimpers."Â
"I can't," I whine against his palm, feeling needy and pathetic as he uses me. "Joel, I can't it feels too good."Â
Joel smirks and I watch as he reaches for my panties on the counter. My eyes follow as he drags it to my mouth, the scent of my arousal clinging to the cotton.
"Open."
I acquiesce without thought, watching as he smirks before stuffing the panties in my mouth.Â
"Good girl. Problem solved."
I want to thank him but the fabric is too tightly wedged into my mouth and Joel has slipped back into me to the hilt, thrusting brutally as my eyes roll back. The pressure pulls tight in my belly, my whines barely muffled by my trembling lips. But I bite down on the panties, the fabric swallowing the building moans as my eyelids flutter.Â
"Don't you dare look away," he grunts as he pounds into me. "You watch who owns this pussy. You watch the man who makes you cum."Â
His hand is at the front of my throat, urging my face up to see that the reflection shows my body arching up into him, responding to every deliberate touch, every low, rasping whisper he throws at me.Â
âThatâs it,â he whispers, kissing just below my ear. âThat little slut in the mirror knows exactly what she's doin'. Married man buried in her pussy, party goin' on outside."Â
My hair is a messy halo around my face, strands plastered to my skin, and every tilt of my head, every flicker of my tongue across parted lips, is mirrored back with exacting detail, magnifying the intensity, the mess, the sheer heat of being claimed.
I watch the way my eyes glaze, the way his arm holds me tight against him, the way our bodies fit in the glass. The sounds are shameless: wet, rhythmic, punctuated by the breathless little cries I canât swallow down no matter how hard I try.Â
Joel slows only enough to murmur in my ear, âGood girl. Take me deep,â he orders, and I obey, watching his big frame bent over me, his hips working, the flex of his forearm as he keeps my jaw facing the mirror.Â
I watch myself fall apart, and in the mirror, I canât look away.
"There she is," Joel says softly before pressing a kiss to my temple. "You don't look away for a second. You watch who's makin' you cum, understand?"Â
My knees are shaking now, my nails digging into the marble top, my middle pressing hard into the cool edge for balance. Every thrust is harder, sharper, the slap of his hips against my ass echoing in the dark room.Â
âAlmost there,â he growls. âAlmost there, baby. Youâre gonna cum all over me, yeah? Right here, bent over, everyone just outside?"
I feel my eyes cheating back but I nod, forcing my face forward again, unable to stop looking at him. I want this image imprinted in my mind forever, Joel draped over me, holding me in place as he thrusts.Â
"Youâre gonna remember exactly who fucks you right," he grunts against my cheek, "Gonna remember that this is the cock that makes you cum like a little whore."Â
The pace shifts, bang, bang, bang, his cock driving deep while his fingers circle my clit faster, relentless. My eyes roll back again, my thighs clamping tight around him as the orgasm tears through me, hot and blinding.
The orgasm rips through me hard, silent but shaking, my fingernails digging into the counter as I ride it out. I moan into the cotton, the sound smothered as my body jerks and squeezes around him, wetness spilling over his cock as I cum.
"That's my girl," he gasps softly. "Cumming on the right cock tonight. Only gonna cum on this cock from now on."Â
He fucks me harder, milking every last pulse until Iâm sagging onto the sink, limp and shaking and nodding. He leans in, lips grazing my ear.Â
âNow you know,â he says, voice low and satisfied. âYou cum so damn easy, but only with the right man."Â
I'm agreeing, head nodding jerkily. I only want to cum on his cock. I only ever want Joel's cock from now on. His hand is on my cheek, tilting my face up and over my shoulder. He smiles, lips connecting with mine. He kisses me deeply, licking into my mouth before turning me back to face the mirror.Â
"My turn, baby."Â
His movements picks up to its previous brutal pace, hips slapping into mine. The sound is echoing and I'm terrified that it'll carry into the next room, but I'm more concerned that he's starting to pump longer, slower and then rapid. He's close.Â
I throw myself back, arm wrapped behind me around his neck. His eyes blow black, watching my tits jump under my dress from this angle, his cock feeding into me over and over, the arousal dripping down my inner thighs as he keeps going. It looks filthy and gorgeous all at once.Â
"Not inside, Joel," I whisper into his neck, eyes moving to his in the reflection. "You can't cum inside."
"This is my pussy," he tells me like it's fact, his voice low and husky. He won't break eye contact with my reflection. "I cum in her, darlin'."Â
"You can't," I insist, even as my hips rock harder against his, the pleasure building again. "You can't."Â
"I'm gonna cum in her sweetheart," Joel growls against my temple. "And you're gonna watch me do it."Â
My stomach tightens, muscles bunching and releasing as I brace against the edge of the sink, and in the glass I can see how wrecked I am, my fingers clutching at the countertop like itâs the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.
My reflection captures everything: my face twisting in ecstasy, my body shivering and arching, and his wild, almost animalistic intensity, each glance and thrust amplified by the glass until it feels like the two of us exist only here, in this mirrored heat.Â
âThat's right, honey,â he murmurs, his tone both command and praise. "You want me to finish inside, don't you?"
I nod with a whimper, trying to be quiet even with the slap of our skin echoing in the tile.Â
"Thatâs it,â he says, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. âKeep quiet. Donât want âem hearinâ how good Iâm fuckinâ you.â
I choke back a gasp, my nails curling against the countertop.
"Fuck you're gorgeous like this," he says in an awed tone. He smiles at my grinning reflection. "Oh, you want praise is that it? It's not enough I made you cum you wanna know how good you are?"Â
I bite down hard on my lip, my eyes flicking around the mirror. Heâs looking right at me, his jaw tight, sweat dampening the curls at his temple. My chest is tight, my legs trembling, and he must feel it because his grip on me tightens, his thrusts getting rougher.
âYouâre my beautiful girl,â he says, almost a growl now. âAlways gonna be. And my girl needs my cum, doesn't she?"
The praise makes something in me unravel. My head tips back against his shoulder, my mouth falling open in a silent cry as I keep my gaze locked with his in the reflection. The sight makes my breath hitch.Â
âYeahâŠâ he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear, his breath hot and uneven. âThat's right, baby. Just let it happen." Â
My eyes lock with his in the mirror, my lips parted, my body pliant under his grip as I watch my body being used for his pleasure, his large hands on my hips, the way he holds me in place as he fucks into me. His jaw tight, his hand firm on my hip as he drives into me one last time, burying himself deep.Â
âThatâs it,â he rasps, his thrusts are urgent now. âLook at me. Watch how good you look when I finish in you."
His thrusts stutter and without warning his mouth is at my shoulder, biting down gently as he shudders. I feel the warmth of his spend flooding my pussy, his groan muffled into my skin.Â
We stay like that for a moment, breathing hard, foreheads almost touching in the glass before he eases out, fixing my dress with quick, careful hands.Â
He wipes me down, tugging the panties from my mouth and pulling them up my legs. He presses one last kiss to my lips, softer now.
âGo,â he says quietly, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. âBefore they wonder.â
I nod then impulsively kiss him, feeling my heart soften when his hands come to cup my face before deepening the kiss.Â
"Who do you belong to?" He murmurs, his eyes on me.Â
"You."Â
I answer in a sigh, no thought just the instinctual knowledge that I do belong to him just as much as he belongs to me.Â
"All of you," he smiles.Â
I slip out first, my legs unsteady, and the bathroom door clicking shut behind me
The drive home from Joel and Tessâs place is quiet in that companionable way it often is after a big dinner. Jack hums tunelessly to the radio, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Heâs smiling but his eyes keep flicking to the road ahead like his mind is somewhere else entirely.
I stare out the passenger window, the cul-de-sac lights blurring into golden streaks as we pass. My chest feels heavy. I can still see Joel in my mind, how heâd caught my gaze across the table, the almost imperceptible way heâd soften before looking away.Â
I hadnât wanted to name it before, but now the truth presses up against me, undeniable and terrifying: Iâve fallen in love with him. Not just attraction. Not just fascination. Love. And itâs not the kind you can tuck away in a back corner of your heart and ignore.
It hits me with a sudden, painful clarityâstaying with Jack isnât fair. Not to him. Not to me. Not when I know what I feel for another man.Â
I feel my phone buzz in my purse. I pick it up and read it, Jack distractedly looking at the road.Â
Be outside your apartment at 12 tomorrow. Â
That's all it is, no details, nothing. The starkness of his message makes me wince a little. A reminder that even if Jack and I separate there's no guarantee that Joel will want to continue things.Â
But that's okay. Because if Jack has really found something with Anne, if thatâs why heâs been so distracted, so distant, then this is the kindest thing I can do. This is me showing love to Jack, the most selfless kind I'm capable of.Â
âI was thinking,â I say softly, my voice breaking the comfortable hum of the radio. âMaybe we could go out for dinner tomorrow night? Just us. The Italian place?â
His head turns slightly, and for a second he looks almost relieved? âYeah?â His smile brightens, quick and easy. âThat sounds great. Been a while since we did that.â
I nod, pretending to share his enthusiasm, but in my mind, tomorrow night is already decided. Thatâs when Iâll tell him. Thatâs when Iâll finally let go.
Jackâs gaze lingers a moment too long, and I see his expression flicker, like heâs caught something in my eyes I hadnât meant to reveal.
We donât speak much after that.
At home, we go through the motions of brushing teeth, changing into pajamas. Jack kisses me goodnight, but itâs brief, distracted, and when we climb into bed, he turns away faster than usual.Â
Thereâs a stiffness in his shoulders, a slight tension in the way he exhales. Within minutes, his breathing evens out. Heâs asleep, one arm flung carelessly across the sheets, his phone resting on the nightstand beside him. .
I lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, my chest aching with the weight of tomorrow.
A tear slips free before I can stop it, rolling over my temple and disappearing into the pillow. I donât sniffle, donât shift. Jackâs breathing stays even, his back warm against the edge of my arm. I remember when that warmth felt like home.
Iâm on the edge of sleep, my mind loosening its grip, when a sudden beep jolts me back. Itâs sharp in the quiet, the screen glow flashing against the wall. Jackâs phone.
I blink, disoriented for a second, before turning my head toward the nightstand. The screen is still lit. The notification banner is there, bold against the dark.
Itâs late, past two am. My pulse stutters, then starts to race. I donât move right away, my brain caught in the space between disbelief and dread. The light from the phone glows against Jackâs shoulder, and I swear his breathing doesnât change. Heâs still asleep.
Slowly, I reach over, careful not to make the mattress dip too much, my fingers curling around the cool rectangle of glass. The screen tilts toward me, and I bring it down to my side of the bed, holding it low so the light doesnât spill across his face.
Logan.
My stomach tightens. Logan hates me. Always has. But heâs Jackâs friend, supposedly professional. Still, curiosity gnaws at me. I reach for the phone, but itâs locked. Jack is still asleep. I take his thumb and press it to the sensor. The screen unlocks instantly. The message is simple: a video attachment and the words: For the collection xx
I frown. Collection? The âxxâ is personal. I slip in my earbuds, hit play, and my heart starts to hammer. The video opens to a dimly lit room. Jack is sitting on the edge of a bed, his face pink, lips parted in that shy, awkward smile he wears when he doesnât know what to do with himself.
Loganâs voice is first, teasing, casual. âLook at this kiss-ass,â he murmurs, camera wobbling slightly as it pans. "Worked all week but volunteered for an extra shift. You wanna tell the camera why?"
âShuddap,â Jack says softly, ducking his head.
âCâmon,â Logan teases. His tone is still playful, but thereâs a slow shift. It deepens, softens, and the teasing becomes something more intimate. "C'mon Jack. Tell the camera why you're really here on a Saturday."
Jack fidgets with his hands, pressing them lightly against his thighs, moving with shy, nervous anticipation
"Because you're here on Saturdays."Â
Logan chuckles softly, adjusting his position in frame, murmuring encouragements in low, intimate tones. "And why did you want to see me, today?"Â
Jack's face is a bright red. I have never seen him this flustered before. The sight clearly amuses Logan. "That's okay. You don't have to say. You wanna get on your knees for me, pretty boy?â
The question shocks me. I wait for Jack to laugh, push back, protest. But he doesnât. His eyes light up, eager, bright, full of trust. He stands up from the chair and slowly lowers himself to the floor. Logan goes closer, the camera shifting to close up on Jack.Â
âGood,â Logan murmurs, voice low, warm. âTake off your clothes. Let me see that perfect body.â
Jack obeys instantly, pulling the T-shirt over his head. His chest is tan, dotted with a few freckles, soft lines of muscle flexing as he bends forward. His pants, his boxers, all are tossed onto the floor until he's there knelt before Logan completely bare now.Â
His gaze stays fixed on the camera, on Logan, completely unfazed by his own nudity.Â
Logan's hand moves into frame, fingers gently grazing Jack's cheek. His shoulders are tense with anticipation, chest rising rapidly when Logan's thumb moves to drag along his full lips, slipping it into Jack's mouth.Â
Jack begins to suck on it gently, eyes going glazed. Logan groans his name before dragging the digit out, wetting Jack's lower lip with his own saliva.Â
âGonna use these pretty blowjob lips on me?â Loganâs voice is gentle, teasing at the same time.
âYes,â Jack replies immediately.
"Good boyâ Logan murmurs, low and intimate, dragging his thumb over Jackâs lower lip. âI wanna hear you beg for it. Can you do that for me?â
Jack swallows, eyes widening, shivering slightly. âYesâ
âLook in the cameraâ Logan says next, and Jack doesnât hesitate. His voice is soft but needy:
âPlease⊠please let me suck your cock, Logan.â
Loganâs fingers card through his hair gently, thumbs brushing over the soft nape of his neck. âGood boy.â
Jack leans into the touch, eyes unfocused, lips slightly parted. I watch as Logan points the camera slightly down. He's already nude, cock jutting and pressing against Jack's lower lip.Â
"Show me how much you want it," Logan encourages. Jack doesn't even hesitate, licking the head without breaking eye contact.Â
The sound he makes when he opens his mouth around Logan is wet, muffled, desperate. The entire scene is a mix of urgency and devotion. Jackâs lips suck and slide, throat humming, moaning quietly with every gentle praise. Loganâs voice keeps low, rich, guiding him with words that are part command, part affection.
"Fuck how are you so good at that?" Logan groans, cock twitching against Jack's tongue.Â
The camera grain, the slight wobble, the muffled room noises make everything feel immediate, visceral. Every motion Jack makes conveys consent, enjoyment, and deep desire.Â
Loganâs murmurs guide him, coax him, praise him, ensuring he knows how good he is, how much he is cherished.
"You're so beautiful on your knees for me. Fuck, Jack, you're fucking perfect."Â
A low moan escapes him with each careful, greedy motion. His hands rest lightly on Loganâs hips at first, and then start to wander, stroking himself in time with the rhythm. He sucks Logan sweetly, eyes up at him as he strokes himself.Â
âYouâre so pretty,â Logan murmurs, running a hand along Jackâs cheek. âGod, your skin, so softâŠ.â
The way he moves, slow, deliberate, almost reverent, makes it obvious he trusts Logan completely. I watch Logan's fingers curl in Jack's hair, guiding him to take him deeper, groaning when Jack almost chokes on him.Â
"Fucking perfect," Logan gasps, thrusting deeper and retreating. "Can you take more?"
Jack moans around his cock, nodding before looking up at him with desperate, needy eyes.Â
"Fuck. Fuck just- just like that," Logan says, his hips smacking against Jack's mouth as he fucks it.Â
The noises are intimate and messy, wet slurps, the faint scrape of teeth on skin, Jackâs own breath hitching in little, and uneven pants. His knees are on the carpet, toes flexed, and posture submissive yet eager. Every time he pulls back, saliva stretches from his lips to the head of Loganâs cock, glistening in the soft light.
âThatâs it,â Logan murmurs. âSuch a good fucking boy.â
Jack moans around him, trembling slightly. His eyes are glazed, glassy, pupils blown wide.Â
Theyâre breathing hard now, chests rising and falling in sync. Loganâs hand keeps Jackâs hair guided, thumb brushing the soft skin along his cheek. Jackâs own hand presses against his own thigh, clutching at himself, jerking off in rhythm.
'So pretty,â Logan murmurs, voice low, intimate. âAnd your all mine, aren't you?"
Jack trembles, lips parting, eyes glossy, completely absorbed in Loganâs guidance and praise. âYes⊠Iâm yoursâŠâ
I bite my lip, chest tight. Every moan, shiver, and whispered word draws me in. Jack is submissive, attentive, eager, responding to Loganâs dirty talk and praise with every fiber of his body.
Their intimacy is palpable, kisses, nudges, gentle guidance, playful teasing, murmurs, shivers, soft laughter. Loganâs husky voice drags Jack closer, praising, coaxing, drawing moans and gasps from him. Jackâs cheeks are flushed, lips trembling, eyes half-lidded, shivering, completely lost in Loganâs attention.
I've never seen Jack like this. My broad, fitness-obsessed boyfriend. I could never have imagined him looking so at home on his knees, sucking another man's cock. The grain of the video captures every nuance, the blush along his cheeks, the small trembles of his hands, the way his shoulders tighten and release.
Jack's hands are back on Logan's hips, bracing himself as Logan buries his cock in his throat. "Fuck, mmm - Jack... Gonna-"
I see the moment that Logan cums, he's holding Jack's head in place, rutting his hips as Jack's untouched cock bobs, before erupting onto the ground below. The two men groan in unison, their orgasms touching, meeting in the air as Logan floods Jack's mouth.Â
"Jack," Logan gasps "Jack you're so fucking good."Â
Theyâre clearly enjoying this, clearly wanting each other, and the tenderness in Loganâs touches makes my stomach knot, shock and confusion twisting together.Â
I fumble to turn the phone off when Jack shifts in his sleep next to me. He sighs softly, curling closer, and I slip the earbuds out, heart still hammering. I stare at the ceiling, utterly stunned.
I thought I knew Jack. I thought I knew the man sleeping next to me looking so peaceful I hate him for it. I've been in anguish, disgusted with myself for what I've been doing behind his back. And this entire time he was fucking his co-worker?Â
I canât stop thinking about that first text from Logan: For the collection xx
What collection?Â
My curiosity gnaws at me, even though a small, rational part of me knows I should stop. That anymore is just going to break my heart. My fingers hover over Jackâs phone again, heart hammering. The screen lights up in the dim light of our bedroom, and I notice an icon with a small padlock icon sitting smugly next to the name: âPrivate.â
I remind myself: I shouldnât be doing this. But the temptation is too much. I donât know how to break into it, passwords, biometrics, anything. But then I swipe the shape of an L, not surprised when it opens.Â
I swipe through everything else, anything accessible, and my chest starts to tighten. The collection Logan was referencing is stuffed full of images and videos and voice memos.Â
Its innocuous images first; Jack and Logan laughing over coffee, in the physio clinic, goofing off at work. Loganâs arm draped casually over Jackâs shoulder in one, a wide, crooked smile stretching across his face; Jackâs eyes are bright, head tilted toward Logan, completely comfortable.Â
Theyâre not just coworkers. Not just friends. Thereâs a soft, unspoken ease in every shot, a closeness Iâve never seen between Jack and me. My chest tightens even more. These moments are small, almost imperceptible gestures: a brush of fingers against an arm, a hand lingering slightly too long, a shared glance across the room. But in the context of the photos, every detail becomes loaded with meaning.
And then I see them in bed. Not just in bed, but snuggled together, soft smiles on their faces, the kind of contentment that comes from being utterly comfortable with another person. Jackâs head resting lightly on Loganâs shoulder, completely lost in each other.
I scroll slower, almost afraid of what Iâll see next. The photos reach back as far as Jackâs second week at his physio job. Week by week, they trace a story: quiet morning coffees, shared breakfasts, playful office banter. I see Jackâs face light up in every frame, growing brighter, his laughter genuine, unguarded. Logan is always there, leaning in, grinning, teasing him, their connection deepening with each image.
The more I see, the more my chest tightens. Heâs in love.Â
And itâs not with me.
I stare at a photo of Jackâs head resting on Loganâs chest in a bed I can only assume it's Logan's. He's taken it selfie style, smiling up at the camera as if to say "how darling". Jack's eyes are closed, lips slightly parted, a soft sigh frozen in the still image.Â
I feel tears prick at my eyes, the ache in my chest deepening. This is his happiness, and Iâm not part of it.
I try to put the phone down, to step back and breathe, but Iâm too fascinated, too riveted. The photos, the timeline, the intimacy, itâs addictive, voyeuristic. I keep scrolling, lingering over each detail: Jackâs half-lidded eyes, Loganâs soft smile, the subtle ways their bodies touch, the small, precious moments of closeness.
And with every photo, every gesture, every shared glance, it becomes undeniable: Jackâs heart is somewhere else. The ache is sharp, immediate, and yet I canât stop. My chest tightens, my hands tremble, and Iâm caught between heartbreak and fascination, unable to look away.
I stop at the earliest dated video. From about six weeks back. It starts with Jack at the physio office, smiling at the camera, talking through a leg stretch like a patient demo.Â
Jack shifts his weight slightly, holding the phone at an angle so the camera captures him and the physiotherapy table. âOkay, so this oneâs great for your hamstring flexibility,â he begins, voice light, professional, almost performative.Â
He lifts one leg, bending it at the knee, and gently presses his foot against the wall while keeping the other leg planted firmly on the ground.Â
"You want your knee straight, toes flexed toward you. Keep your hips square, back flat, and hold for about thirty seconds. Really feel the stretch along the back of your leg, not in your lower back."
He demonstrates the motion carefully, shifting his hips slightly forward, keeping his shoulders even, the line of his leg stretching smooth and precise under the fluorescent lights of the office.
Heâs animated, the way he always is when heâs excited. "I usually like to breathe slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth," Jack says with a charming smile. "It helps your muscl-âÂ
The door to the room opens with a burst. Jack freezes mid-step and Logan storms in, hair tousled, chest rising fast, eyes locked on Jack like heâs daring him to run. Thereâs something raw in his energy tonight, a storm barely contained. Even from the video I can see his eyes are red-rimmed.Â
âLogan, what's going-â Jack begins, but Logan doesnât wait.
His hands are on Jackâs face, pulling him and suddenly their lips crash together. I hold in a gasp, shocked. Jack stiffens at first, arms up in defense, eyes wide, but Logan doesnât relent. He presses closer, teeth grazing, hands roaming over Jackâs shoulders, chest pressing insistently.
Jackâs resistance flickers, a battle between instinct and desire. His hands hover over Logan, unsure; wanting to push away, yet inching closer with each heartbeat. Finally, they pull back, gasping, foreheads touching. Jackâs hand is still on Loganâs chest, trembling slightly.
âLogan. What the fuck was-â Jack starts voice uncertain.
âI like you,â Logan interrupts, hurried, tense. âAnd I think you like me.â
A long, creeping silence extends between the men. Their eyes locked, their breathing heavy.Â
What the fuck? My eyes widen, taking in the scene.Â
Jack finally blinks, staring. âWhat do you mean, you like me?â
"I mean... I like you. I want you. I want to be with you."Â
"That's just friendship, Logan," Jack says laughing weakly.Â
âDonât deny it,â Logan says softly, voice almost breaking. "Please."
"Logan-" jack shakes his head quickly, trying to push the thought away. âI'm not gay."Â
Loganâs hands tighten slightly on Jackâs arms, leaning closer, eyes pleading. âI didnât think I was either. I don't even know if I am. I've never felt like this about a guy."
Jack looks like he's going to faint, his face blanched.Â
"That night I came to you about Marissa. The night we went to the pub, there was a moment wasn't there?" Logan looks undone, his voice reedy. "You felt it too. That spark. When you were driving me home and you looked at me and I just knew you felt the same way.â
Jack doesn't answer.Â
"I canât stop thinking about you, Jack. I only go through some days at work because I know Iâll see you. Thatâs it. Thatâs all I think about.â
Jack swallows, blinking rapidly, the words digging into him. "I have a girlfriend, Logan.â
"So did I" Logan steps back just a fraction, gaze intense. "But the minute I met you it's... It's like the world just got brighter."Â
Despite everything, I feel my eyes water.. The love is so clear in Logan's eyes and his words.Â
"And I knew that there was no one else for me. That you were it."Â
"It's just friendship-'
"I wanna make you cum," Logan says huskily. "I want you to fuck me. That's not friendship, Jack."
 I can see in the pixelated image, that Jack's hand hovers loosely in front of his pelvis, trying to hide his building erection. Logan doesn't notice, he starts to pace in front of Jack, his reflection in the mirror behind my boyfriend.
"I know it's a lot and I know it feels like it coming out of nowhere but I've been feeling like this for months, Jack."Â
Jack swallows hard, his hands fidgeting at his sides. He shakes his head, trying to deny it, to turn away from the truth burning in his chest. âI'm straight, I have a girlfriend, we're planning a future together."Â
Even as he says it i can see the clear strain in his voice.Â
Logan's eyes burn, eyes narrowed on the bulge in Jack's pants. He storms over, one arm crooked over Jack's shoulder against the glass, mouth inches from his ear.Â
I watch as his hand slides down Jack's torso to cup his hard cock through his pants. "Does she make you this hard, Jack?"
"Logan-" His voice is sharp but quiet, almost a whisper that slices through the room. His eyes are on Logan's hand which is sliding along his cock. A cock which is swelling further under Logan's deft touch.Â
Jack hisses, biting his lower lip as it happens, eyelids fluttering at the unexpected pleasure.Â
"Tell me this isn't what you want" Logan whispers. His fingers fumble at Jack's waistband before sliding under. I hear the sound of flesh on flesh as he begins to stroke and then the deep groan that escapes Jack.Â
A sound I've never been able to pull out of him, not even at our best.Â
"You don't get hard like this for a friend," Logan insists huskily, his movements quicker. Jack is panting, gripping his shoulder as Logan jerks him off.Â
"Not even twenty seconds," Logan smirks, his movements more rapid. "And you're so close."Â
Jack's cheeks are pink, eyes glassy as he groans lowly again, eyes never straying from Logan's.Â
"You tell me it's so hard to cum with her," Logan continues, the movements under Jack's pants increasing in tempo. "But with me? It's just my hand and you're almost over the edge."Â
Jack shakes his head jerkily, but his hips are thrusting forward, fucking into Logan's hand.Â
"I think I could make you cum right here against the wall with just my hand, Miller," Logan says not unkindly.Â
"Fuck- fuck, no don't stop-" Jack gasps just as Logan slides his hands out of his pants. Jack is shaking, his teeth bared as he realizes what he's said.Â
"You wanted me to keep going." Loganâs words hang in the air, insistent, patient, coaxing him toward a truth Jack clearly isnât ready to claim.
"Just because it felt good," Jack scowls. "Anyone stroking my cock feels good, Logan. Doesn't mean I'm gay."Â
Logan sighs, frustrated. "Jack, c'mon..."
Jack's big hands fidget, fingers curling and uncurling, restless. "I have a girlfriend. I love her. "
"I know and I loved Marissa just as much. But I ended it because of this, because of you. " Logan's voice catches on the last word. "I want all of you, Jack; even the parts you think are broken and ugly. The parts you can't show your girlfriend or your parents."
Jack's lower lip trembles, his big strong frame suddenly weakened by the words of Logan. His fingers twitch, hovering near Loganâs chest before dropping. Jack shakes his head, lips parting as he mutters my name, clearly torn. âI don't want to hurt her. I love her.âÂ
"I loved Marissa too," Logan nods. "But it doesn't come close to how I feel about you."Â
Jack's eyes are overflowing. Mine are too.Â
âTell me you donât want me.â Loganâs voice drops, softer now, desperate, coaxing. "Tell me you don't want me and I'll never bring it up again. I'll transfer to another clinic. You never see me again."
Jack is shaking his head before looking away for a fraction, then back, eyes wide, wet. Â
I lean closer to the screen, heart thudding in my chest, every muscle taut as I watch.Â
My stomach tightens, and I press my hand to it without even thinking, because watching him struggle like this, heart and body betraying him, is breaking my heart.Â
His chest rises and falls too fast, fingers flexing at his side.Â
And Logan is calm, patient, waiting. Letting Jack make his choice. But the quiet intensity in his eyes is magnetic, and I can see Jack being pulled into it against his will. His lips part, a little gasp escaping before he even realizes it, and I can almost hear the choked words heâs holding back. I lean closer, breath catching, because my chest is tight just watching him unravel.
"I... Logan, I..."
I swear I see it in the screen, the moment he canât hold it any longer: the faint, involuntary lean forward, the smallest quiver of surrender, the silent confession that is already written all over his body.
âI do want you.â His voice is small, almost broken, his face crumples. Jackâs head dips, his hands trembling slightly as he flexes and curls, struggling to contain the pull he knows he shouldnât feel.Â
Loganâs hands cup Jackâs cheeks, leaning closer, their foreheads touching. Jack swallows hard. "I'm tired of pretending I don't want you like this." Â
âYou felt it that night,â Logan murmurs, almost shaking. âDidn't you?."Â
Jack closes his eyes, nodding slowly. He opens them again, looking at Logan, vulnerability shining through. âI just thought it was in my head.â
Logan leans in, brushing lips against the curve of Jackâs mouth. "This is real.â
Jack hesitates, trembling. His hands graze Loganâs shoulders, then slide down his chest, tentative. âI canât stop thinking about you. You're the one I want to tell everything to. The one that I get excited to see every day.â
âI want you,â Logan whispers, voice raw, thumb stroking the line of Jackâs jaw. "I want you, Jack."
Jackâs lips part, breath hitching, eyes flicking away and back, wrestling with himself. Finally, with a shaky laugh, he presses his mouth against Loganâs, hesitant at first, then with growing intensity.Â
Their tongues meet, tentative, exploring, and then deepening as their hips grind together. I watch Jack pull back, his eyes wide. "Holy shit."
Logan pulls back, worried, his eyes searching Jack's face. "What?"Â
Jack lets out a shuddering laugh, his hands on Logan's waist. "Iâve j-just never felt like that kissing anyone.â
Logan laughs, a warm chuckle that makes both men smile. He kisses Jack slowly, fingers loosely around his neck, their eyes closed, their tongues gently tangling.Â
"Fuck," Jack sighs, mouth on Logan's. "Fuck this feels...."Â
"Right?"
"Yeah." Jack shakes his head, letting out a nervous laugh. âI canât believe this is happening." Suddenly he sobers, face dropping. "Logan, My girlfriend. My parents. How do I tell them?"Â
I see Jack starting to get agitated, his body tensing. Logan's hands are still on Jack's cheeks, holding his face and gazing at him with adoration. "Shh, calm down."Â
"Logan they're never going to talk to me again," Jack says with a frantic expression, tears in his eyes. "Fuck, my girlfriend is never going to forgive me. She moved here for me!"Â
Logan looks like he wants to say something, his mouth tensing. I feel my stomach drop. He's going to tell Jack. He's going to tell him everything, about seeing me and Joel. But then he exhales slowly, bringing Jack into a tight embrace. Jack clings to him, hands trembling.Â
âYou donât have to do anything right this second,â Logan murmurs, voice low and steady as he holds Jack. âWe take it slow. Well figure it out together. I'll be there every step of the way."Â
Jack melts, I watch him, the gooey way he just lets Logan hold him, kiss him. Jack catches sight of the camera, pointing with a laugh.Â
âI forgot this was on."Â
"No way." Logan laughs, coming to grab it. "One for the memories I guess. Our first kiss."Â
The screen freezes, the video over. My eyes are saucers as I realize how my life will never be the same. The sweet man I loved, my first love, was never really mine. Not in the way I thought.
Jack is turned away from me, his back a solid, unmoving line in the dim glow that seeps through the blinds. I swallow hard, forcing my breathing to stay slow so Jack wonât stir. The irony isnât lost on me. Iâve been holding a secret in my chest for months, my feelings for Joel, the way I look at him when no oneâs watching, the way my skin remembers the heat of his hand.
And yet here I am, my boyfriend desperately in love with someone else. The phone feels heavier in my palm the longer I hold it. Another tear slips free, sliding hot and slow over my cheek. I press the phone face-down against my thigh, the light cutting off, plunging the room back into shadows.
Jack stirs faintly, rolling his shoulder before settling again. I study the slope of his back, the way it rises and falls. I used to love him so cleanly. Now it feels like love tangled with pity, with obligation, with a grief I donât know how to name. And there's so much relief in it. To know that his heart won't be broken, not really. Not in a way that can't be salvaged.Â
I set the phone back on the nightstand, my movements careful, deliberate. The glow fades from the room, leaving only the streetlamps pale stripe on the wall. I stare at him again, tears in my eyes. He was my first love, my first home, the man I saw forever with. And even if that forever doesn't exist anymore, I still carry love for him. I always will.Â
I lie there in the dark, eyes open, heart pounding. The decision is no longer something Iâm circling around. Itâs already been made.
rating: X (not for minors) \ 12.7k words/bf dad joel miller x female reader
tags: if you don't like smut and morally ambiguous characters this is not the fic for you. there is adultery, thigh fucking, creampies, downright filthy talk, blow jobs, cunnilingus, fingering, keeping quiet, public sex, possessive joel miller and that isn't even all of it.
tldr: you accidentally fuck your bf's dad and then you keep fucking him.
masterlist
The upcoming chapters and this one are getting very long and icreasingly porny. And it's only going to get more intense as we go along so please keep leaving those delicious comments of yours and be sure to check back. The ones with photos make me laugh.
I am not able to tag anymore people because tumblr is weird. Just know this story will be updated AT LEAST once a week until complete, probably on Sunday's.
Life changes fast. Life changes in the instant. - Joan Didion
I wake to an empty bed, the sheets still warm where heâd been, and a pang of disappointment hits me before I can fully process it. He's gone.Â
The quiet hum of the hotel air conditioner feels louder than it should, a reminder that heâs gone, and Iâm alone with the memory of his arms around me. I shouldn't be upset or surprised. Last night was as we said, carnal, it meant nothing. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, forcing myself not to linger. A shower should reset me.Â
The hot water scalds my skin, but itâs not enough to wash him away. I tell myself it doesnât matter, I blink back my tears.Â
Dressed in professional black slacks and the Miller Brothers construction T-shirt I pull my hair back, smooth my nerves as best I can, and head down to the exhibition hall that the hotel is hosting.Â
The booths are a whirlwind of color and movement, banners snapping, people hurrying past with coffee and clipboards. But in the midst of it, I spot Tommy and Joel already at our booth, moving with that frenetic energy that only comes when something is on a tight deadline.
Joelâs back is to me, t-shirt tight across his broad back, the tension in his shoulders stark even from this distance. Tommy is darting from stack to stack, checking names and schedules, but Joel is focused, precise, and impossibly magnetic, even in the middle of chaos.Â
My pulse picks up without permission, my chest tightening as if remembering every inch of him from last night.
I pause just inside the aisle, telling myself again that I donât need this distraction. I walk toward the booth, heels clicking softly against the floor, and Joel glances up. His eyes catch mine for the briefest second, but then heâs back to work, setting up materials, checking devices, all business.
Tommy waves me over, oblivious to the storm brewing just a few feet away. âHey! Perfect timing, vendor drop in ten, and the screen isn't hooked up yet.â
I nod, moving to assist, but I canât quite shake the sense that Joel is ignoring me. I spend the next few minutes moving through the motions at the booth, arranging brochures and checking the tablet screen, all the while stealing glances at Joel.Â
Heâs there, a few feet away, deliberately precise, hands moving quickly over devices and paperwork. But heâs not looking at me, it's like he's forcing himself not to.Â
I try subtlety at first to catch his attention. I drop a pen near him, let my hand linger a little too long on the table as I pick up brochures, flash a smile while asking him a question about the setup.Â
He glances at me barely, but his focus snaps right back to the screen. No acknowledgement, no flicker of that heat from last night.
"Should be just fine over there. Just stick em next to the business cards."Â
I grit my teeth. Fine, I can play this game. I move closer under the guise of helping with the displays, leaning just enough for my hair to brush his shoulder.Â
âJoel, do you want me to double-check these panels?â I ask, voice casual, light, but thereâs an edge there heâs choosing to ignore.
He doesnât even look at me. âAll set,â he says flatly, almost dismissively. His fingers tap over the keyboard, eyes glued to the screen.Â
I step back, pretending to fuss with brochures, but inside Iâm boiling. Furious. *After everything last night,* the way he held me, kissed meâŠhow can he act like none of it happened? Like Iâm just some background detail while he plays Mr. Professional?
I want to storm off. I want to grab him by the arm and demand an explanation. Instead, I take a deep breath, clenched fists pressing against my thighs, and force myself to stay, to act normal. But the simmering heat behind my eyes refuses to be tamed.
Just like the symposium I'm wedged between the two of them as people begin to file in, stopping at different booths, the chatter rising.Â
Tommy passes me a coffee and muffin he brought for me and I'm thankful. I was so distracted I forgot breakfast.Â
Joel doesn't look my way, almost like it's a challenge. And I realize with sharp clarity that: I wonât let him ignore me. Not like this. Not after last night.
The opportunity comes in the sudden form of Rick wandering to his booth, a stack of embossed notebooks under his arm.Â
He's got that same sleazy grin from yesterday plastered across his face when he passes a pretty woman. I sneer; equal parts annoyance and something darker, something that makes me want to play with fire.Â
Joel and Tommy are busy talking to some guys in flannel, gesticulating to something on the tablet. Perfect opportunity. I leave the booth and glide over to Rick, smiling politely.
âHey,â I say, tilting my head slightly.
His smile wobbles when he recognizes me, does darting to ensure I'm alone. I smile sweetly.Â
 âI wanted to apologize for yesterday. I appreciate you trying to include me.â
Rickâs eyes light up immediately, a glint of predatory delight in them. He leans in just enough, voice low, smooth. âWell, I was just trying to be friendly,â he says. âThought your boyfriend mightâve been upset?â
I can feel Joelâs gaze slicing across the floor, but I glance from the corner of my eye to be certain. Yep, there he is, Tommy chatting to those same journeymen while Joel has gone still. The heat of his stare crawls down my spine makes my chest tight and my pulse spike.Â
I lean a little closer to Rick, lower my voice just enough to let the banter linger, my smile a little brighter, my laughter just a touch breathier. âOh, he's not my boyfriend,â I reply, letting the words drip with just enough teasing. âHeâs at home. Far, far away.â
Rick chuckles, leaning a little closer, emboldened. âFar away, huh? Thatâs a shame. Guess that leaves me to keep you company today.â
I play along, batting my eyelashes, matching his bravado with mine. âIf you don't mind," I tease.Â
I glance over my shoulder, letting my eyes flick briefly toward Joel, and my chest hammers. There he is, a few feet away, jaw tight, fists flexing at his sides, knuckles white.His dark eyes are fixed on me like a predator calculating the perfect moment to strike. My pulse spikes at the sight, an unexpected thrill igniting in my stomach.
I tilt my head, letting the corner of my mouth lift in a mischievous smirk, watching the way Joel's muscles tense, how his hands curl into fists at his sides, how he swallows against the sudden tightness in his throat.
Joelâs eyes flick to Rick and back to me, jaw clenching, nostrils flaring slightly. Heâs so rigid, so taut with something that I feel it almost physically, like static electricity jumping across the floor.Â
Rick, oblivious, leans closer. âI feel like you're trouble,â he says, smirking.
"And I think you like that,â I reply, voice soft, teasing, and deliberate. "Don't you?"
"Yeah," Rick purrs, licking his lower lip. "Yeah, I do."
A large hand clamps onto my upper arm, firm and unyielding, spinning me gently but decisively away from Rick.Â
âSorry to break up the party,â Joel mutters, low and dangerous, giving Rick a look thatâs equal parts warning and menace.
Rick freezes, taken aback, and I canât help the thrill that coils inside me. Joel keeps his hand on my arm, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him, his thumb brushing against my skin in that subtle, infuriating way that makes me shiver.Â
âUh, hey,â Rick stammers, clearly deciding discretion is necessary.
I glance up at Joel, pretending to be innocently surprised. âWhatâs up, Joel?â I ask, letting my voice carry just enough curiosity and teasing to make him visibly tighten. "
Joelâs jaw clenches harder, his teeth pressing against his lower lip. His gaze locks on mine, dark and molten. âWe need you back at the booth," he says evenly, but the low growl under his words betrays the tension threatening to snap. âLet's go.â
I smirk, letting my eyes trace the lines of his face, memorizing the way his fists flex at his sides, the taut of his neck, and the heat in his gaze.Â
He swallows, the movement subtle, but I catch it. And I know heâs aware. Every laugh, every lean, every playful flick of my hair is working him over. His chest rises and falls faster, fists still clenched, jaw tight, and I feel my pulse race, not just from desire, but from the sheer thrill of knowing Iâm the one making him lose control, even if only a little.
Joel pulls me closer, his grip tight enough to be possessive without hurting, his jaw set, and his gaze locked on mine. âWeâll talk later,â he murmurs, voice low, but thereâs no mistaking the warning underneath it.
I glance up at him, surprised but secretly thrilled, the adrenaline of both being caught and being wanted making my pulse race.âNo. I want to talk now.â
The air between us shifts instantly and he abruptly urges me outside the conference hall. His hand finds my elbow, firm enough that I have no choice but to move with him.A few distracted people bump into us as he drags me toward the far corner of the lobby, away from the booths and chatter, toward a quiet alcove near the glass exit doors.
âJoel-"
âNot here,â he bites out, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead like if he looks at me too long, heâll say something he canât take back.
We round the corner, the muted sounds of the conference fading. He finally stops, his hand falling away from my arm, but the heat of his grip lingers.
âYou got somethinâ to say to me?â he asks, low and dangerous.
My arms fold across my chest. âYeah. What is going on with you?â
His brow furrows. âWhat?â
âYouâve been ignoring me since I saw you. Like you're disgusted by me or something."
âThatâs not what it is.â
âOh really? Because from where I was standing, it sure as hell looks like it.â
His eyes narrow, but his voice stays measured. âI woke up this morninâ thinkinâ I pushed you into somethinâ you werenât ready for."
"I was."
He drags a hand over his beard, looking away for a beat before speaking. âI crossed a line."
That knocks the wind out of me for a second. âWhat?â
He meets my gaze again, voice low. âItâs one thing to make you cum. It's another to sleep with you. That's intimate. That's not what we are."Â He drags a hand over his beard, looking away for a beat before speaking.
My jaw tightens. âwhat are we?"
His eyes flash, the muscle in his cheek ticking. âWe talked about it at breakfast the other day. With us it's carnal, it's hunger. And when I woke up this morning wrapped around you I panicked."
The words make something in my chest squeeze. âSo you thought ignoring me would be a good idea."
His mouth opens like heâs going to argue, then shuts again. He exhales through his nose, a frustrated sound and then I see his eyes are wet. It makes my breathing hitch. "Aside from Tess I've never held another woman while she slept in my life. It felt more like a betrayal than anything else we've done." His jaw flexes. âYouâre too damn easy to want."Â
I swallow hard, my anger tangled with something softer. I understand it now. Â
"And Iâm here to work at this conference," he says as he glances around furtively, concerned we're being overheard. "This is my job, my career. I should be focused on that, not..."
âNot what?â I push when he trails off, stepping in until weâre close enough that I have to tip my chin up to keep his gaze.
He doesnât look away. âNot thinking about how you'd look underneath me."Â Â
Weâre breathing the same air now. His gaze drops to my mouth, then snaps back to my eyes like heâs reminding himself of some unspoken rule. His hand twitches at his side, debating whether to touch me.
"You're allowed to have your boundaries, Joel. Just like I am. No more falling asleep together. Just..."Â
I trail off, the meaning clear. His eyes flick to my mouth again, voice husky.Â
"I don't want you doin' something you're rushin' into, darlin'. You need to think it through."
Weâre toe-to-toe now, and I can feel the warmth of his breath when he exhales. My pulse hammers in my ears. âYou donât get to make decisions for me, Joel,â I say quietly. âI'm a grown woman. If you're not sure how I feel, just ask me.â
His gaze searches mine, slow and deliberate, like heâs trying to see past every layer. âIf I ask you now am I gonna like the answer?â
"Depends."
Weâre too close, his chest rising and falling, the faint scent hotel shampoo and coffee clinging to him. His hand twitches like heâs fighting the urge to touch me.
"On what?"
His eyes drop to my mouth. My lips part without permission, my breath catching. I feel his knuckles brush mine, light, tentative, testing.
"On whether you're going to fuck me properly or not."
For a second, itâs like the rest of the world disappears. I lean in a fraction. He mirrors it. My nose nearly grazes his. One more breath and weâd be kissing. Our noses nearly graze. His breath brushes my lips. Then someone laughs sharply from across the hall, noise hitting us like a jolt when we both pull back, as if remembering ourselves at the exact same time.
Joelâs voice is rough when he says, âWeâll talk later.âÂ
I force myself to nod, though my whole body still feels suspended in that almost.
âLater.â
We make our way back to the booth much to Tommy's relief and the rhythm falls into place almost instantly. Joel and Tommy field most of the questions, easy and confident in the technical details. I hover at the edge, half-listening, half-taking mental notes.
Itâs like watching two versions of the same man; Joel, slower and more deliberate, with a weight behind his words; Tommy, quicker, with an easy grin. They donât even have to look at each other to pass off answers. Both ooze charisma, but Joel's feels more intense, more focused. But that just might be the looks he shoots me through the day.Â
I start picking up stray brochures when the table gets messy, jotting down a potential leadâs name when Joel is mid-sentence, catching when someoneâs eyes flick toward a product banner and jumping in with a little hook.
Joel catches it once, his gaze flicking to me briefly like heâs noticed Iâve found my lane. He doesnât comment, but I can tell heâs clocked it. It makes warmth flare deep in my chest.Â
A woman approaches, tall, beautiful, wearing a fitted navy dress. Sheâs scanning the booth like sheâs shopping.Â
Her eyes inevitably land on the Miller men, not that I can blame her. Joelâs got that solid, grounded presence that draws people in. But Tommyâs leaning on the counter, charm at full wattage and that's where her attention lingers.
âMorning ma'am,â Tommy greets her easily. âWhat brings you by?â
"I'm with Whonstar," she says smoothly, her eyes scanning him languidly.Â
"Oh, yeah, we've heard of you," Tommy says, his eyes taking her in just as sensually."Y'all specialize in eco-friendly construction, right?"
"Mhmm."Â
"My name is Tommy," he says extending a hand her way.Â
She takes it, looking at him like Joel and I don't exist. "Maria."Â
"Pleased to meet you." He smiles. "Whonstar is quite the company. Really dominated the past five years."Â
"My father is very passionate about it," Maria says evenly, "as am I. I believe in the message, I just need others to see the benefit."Â
I nod along, already recognizing the challenge sheâs probably up against. I think back to the marketing symposium, the idea I jotted down in my notebook when it came to me. I step forward, my heart pounding.
âDo you think you might be getting buried under generic sustainability messaging?â
Her head tilts, interest flickering in her eyes as she stares at me.
âI-I mean, If you frame it as a luxury choice instead of just a responsible one, you could tap into a whole other demographic," I say trying to keep calm. "Higher spenders who want to feel exclusive as well ethical.â
 âLuxury? In the eco-field of design?â
âYeah,â I say, feeling a little shy when I realize they're all looking at me. âYour brand already has the clean aesthetic; your reputation alone could launch you into a sub-company that could double your perceived value without changing a single thing operationally.â
Joelâs quiet beside me, and I can feel his gaze. I don't know where all of this is coming from. It's like all the things I've been passively reading, listening to, is all coalescing in my mind.Â
 âIt make people feel like theyâre part of an exclusive club that happens to be sustainable, instead of making them feel guilty for not being.â
She laughs, short but genuine, and studies me for a moment. âThatâs an interesting angle.â
Maria smiles, a little conspiratorial now. âWhatâs your role here?â
Before I can answer, Tommy says, âSheâs learninâ the ropes.â
Maria gives him a faint smile, and then looks back at me. âWell, Iâll keep that tip in mind. Thank you.â
She shakes my hand, gives a parting nod to the brothers, and walks off, heels clicking.
âThat right there?" Tommy says quietly, his eyes on her retreating figure, 'Thatâs the white whale.â
Joel nods. âYeah.â
I look from face to face, confused. "How come?"Â
"Sheâs got a client list like you wouldnât believe, developers, architects, even government contracts. She could put us in front of people who donât even look at small firms. If we land her, weâre not just buildinâ houses anymore.â
âAnd sheâs only pickinâ one construction partner for that sustainability push," Joel adds.Â
âExactly. One. You think Iâm kiddinâ when I say itâd set us up for years? Man, if we nail this, we could stop hustlinâ for little jobs and just focus on the good ones.âÂ
Joel nods once, thoughtful.
"She sure liked you," Tommy says to me with a grin. âYou just sold her on herself. Thatâs some kind of magic trick.â
I shrug; suddenly aware Joelâs still looking at me. âJust marketing.â
âMm,â Joel says, low enough I almost miss it. âLooks good on you.â
By the time the crowd thins, my feet are aching, my throat scratchy from smiling and talking more than Iâm used to. Tommyâs leaning back against the booth table like heâs in a bar, sipping from a paper cup of coffee that smells burnt.Â
Joelâs eyes are flicking over the room as though heâs still on alert for anyone who might wander by.
The conference floor starts to shut down for the day, the fluorescent hum overhead softening as vendors pack up. Someone announces this evenings mixer over the loudspeakers: a casual networking thing in the hotel lounge.
"Do they have those every night?" I ask, curious.Â
"Oh yeah. This crowd loves a chance to drink." Tommy slaps Joel on the back. âMixerâs where you close deals, right, big brother?"Â
Joel mutters, âMixerâs where you get roped into drinkinâ warm wine with people you donât like.â
I smother a laugh and Tommy grins at me. âYou cominâ?"Â
Joelâs gaze cuts to me again, steady and assessing, curious.Â
"Yeah, sure, I'll meet you both there."Â
________________________________________
A few hours later, I smooth my hands down the front of my blouse before opening my hotel room door. Iâve gone for the middle ground â polished enough to look professional, but not so buttoned-up that it feels stiff.Â
A fitted blouse in a deep jewel tone, slim trousers, heels that make my posture better even if my feet will hate me later. Iâve let my hair down, literally and figuratively, with just enough curl to look like I didnât spend too much time trying.
The door next to mine clicks open at the exact same time and Joel steps out, straightening the cuff of his shirt. Heâs swapped his work boots for dark brown leather ones that match his belt, his button-down tucked in, the sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms.Â
Thereâs a clean, warm scent that drifts over faintly spicy, layered over hotel soap.
His eyes flick over me once, quick but not careless, like heâs taking stock. âHeadinâ down?â he asks.
âYeah.â
He nods toward the elevator at the end of the hall. âWalk together?â
Itâs casual enough, but something in the way he says it makes my pulse skip.
âSure.â
We fall into step, his arm brushing mine once before we both adjust, keeping the polite distance two colleagues would in public. But Iâm aware of him the whole way down the hall, the slow, easy way he moves, the way his presence feels like it fills the space.
The elevator doors slide open and we step inside. The moment the doors close, the hum of the hotel fades, leaving just the quiet mechanical groan of descent.
I can feel him beside me, close enough that if I turned my head, Iâd see the darker flecks in his eyes.
"You look good."Â
Itâs not what he says, but how calm he says it; like thereâs no urgency, but his eyes say something else entirely.
"So do you," I smile back.Â
The doors open again, and we step out into the hotel lobby as if nothing happened, our expressions neutral, our pace steady. The hotel lounge is already humming when we walk in, the space crowded with small round tables, the low thump of music blending with the sound of conversation and clinking glasses.Â
The conference badge around my neck feels like a little flag announcing Iâm here to network, even if Iâm still figuring out my place here. Tommyâs already got a drink in his hand, leaning against the bar with a woman I recognize instantly even though she's dressed to the nines. Maria.Â
âHey, there you are,â Tommy says when he spots us, grinning wide. âYou remember Maria.â
She turns to me, her gaze appraising but not unkind. "Nice to see you again. Please, join us."
Joelâs quiet, but when I sit, he rests his hand on the back of my chair, casual, steady, thumb brushing the edge of my shoulder blade before moving away. The touch is fleeting, but I feel it.
"I've been thinking about your free marketing advice earlier," Maria says, lifting her wine to her mouth.Â
I laugh, a little embarrassed.Â
âNot many people tell me something I havenât already considered.âÂ
Thatâs good?â
âItâs rare,â she says simply, setting her glass down. âAnd you were right, we have been stuck in that sustainability-as-responsibility narrative. Itâs safe. Itâs predictable. And itâs starting to bore me.â
I glance at Tommy and Joel, but theyâre both watching her like hawks. Tommy with a spark of charm in his eye, Joel quieter, weighing every word.
âSo youâre thinkingâŠ?â I ask carefully
âIâm thinking,â Maria says, leaning in slightly, âif your company can build what Iâm imagining , something bold enough to grab the luxury market while staying authentically green, youâd have my attention.â
âWe can do it.â
She glances at Joel. âThatâs a challenge. Most firms talk big, but they canât deliver on both.â
Tommy grins. âWe donât screw up.â
Maria studies him, then me. âMaybe. But Iâm picky.â She swirls her wine once, deliberate. âI choose one partner for my campaigns. One. If and only if I choose you, youâre not just building for me; youâre building for every high-profile client I hand to you."
Joelâs voice is steady when he says, âWeâre the right choice.â
Mariaâs lips curve, like she enjoys the confidence. âI guess we'll see.âÂ
Maria shifts the topic and she and Tommy start to chat now. They talk about nothing exciting but the chemistry is undeniable. She's quick to counter his jokes, and heâs clearly enjoying the sparring.Â
She even leans in when she laughs, her hand grazing his sleeve like sheâs known him longer than a day. It's fun to see but at the same time I'm jealous that they can be so open with their attraction while I have to suppress my desire to touch him.Â
He sits back in his chair, looking thoughtful as he watches them. I wonder if he's thinking the same thing as me. Iâm halfway through a sip of wine when a familiar voice cuts in.
âDidnât think Iâd see you here,â Rick says, appearing at the other side of the table like heâs been waiting for an opening.Â
"Couldn't say no to the free booze," I say trying to look calm in front of Maria.Â
His gaze lingers on me a little too long. âAbout earlier-âÂ
Having Joel behind me makes me feel more confident. I give him a polite smile. âDon't worry about it. I'm sure we've all moved on. I know I have."
When Rick leans a little closer, Joel shifts just enough that his knee brushes mine under the table. Itâs subtle but deliberate. His mouth ticks at the corner, the smallest signal that he knows exactly what heâs doing.
Maria glances between Rick and I once, like sheâs reading more than weâre saying, before turning back to Tommy with another teasing line that fades into the music.Â
"It was rude and inappropriate," Rick says before moving his eyes to Joel. "You were right to call me out on it."Â
I feel Joel relax slightly.Â
"Anyway, that's all I wanted to say," Rick says before he excuses himself for âanother drink."Â
"Well that was unexpected," I murmur behind my wine glass.Â
"Sure was."Â
The conversations around us keep flowing, but I feel the clock ticking down. I don't want to wait. I want his hands on me, his tongue in my mouth, and his body over mine.Â
"I'm pretty tired," I say softly, "I'm going to head up."
"I'll walk you," Joel says casually, like it's not strange for him to be tired too. âBeen a long day.â
Tommy is barely paying attention, his eyes are on Maria.Â
âThanks,â I answer.
He stands, offering the table a polite nod, and we leave together. Both of us are composed, the tension between us growing with every step away.Â
The walk back to the rooms is quiet, each step thick with everything we havenât said all day. I can feel Joelâs presence at my side, the weight of his glance when we pass under a pool of hallway light, the way his hand flexes once at his side like heâs holding himself in check.
We step into the empty elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft chime. The moment they click closed, itâs like something snaps.Joelâs on me in two strides, his hand finding my waist. My back hits the cool metal wall, his body pressing into mine, and I can feel the tension in him like a live wire,Â
 His mouth grazes my jaw before sliding lower, warm and urgent against the curve of my neck. I gasp, my fingers curling into his hair, holding him there as if I can anchor myself against the surge of heat flooding me.
He breathes low against my skin. "You gonna cum on my cock tonight?"Â
His rough, hungry words make my pulse stumble and my knees weaken. "Yes. Yes, I want that."Â
I tilt my head back, my eyes closing as his mouth drags lower, each touch deliberate, claiming.Â
"Can practically smell how wet you are," he growls, hand sliding under my pants, fingers fumbling over my panties, feeling the soaked gusset with one harsh stroke over the cotton. "Oh, darlinâ, she's cryin' for me."Â
"I've been wet for you all day," I moan, my hand going to palm his hardening cock through his pants. "All I want is you inside me."Â
My fingers tighten in his hair, and he makes a sound in his throat. "That's what you're gonna get, baby," he says through a groan, his hips rutting against my hand. "I'm gonna fuck this pretty pussy all night."Â
The elevator slows, and in the heartbeat before the doors open, we step apart, both breathing harder than we should be, our eyes locking with the silent acknowledgement of what is going to happen.
We walk out without a word, but every step toward our rooms feels like a continuation of what started behind those closed doors. The carpet muffles our footsteps, but the air between is still humming with what just happened. My skin is warm where his mouth had been, my fingers tingling from where theyâd clutched his hair.
We walk side by side, neither of us speaking, but his hand brushes mine as we reach our doors. We stop at the same time, facing each other with only a couple feet between us.
Joelâs jaw works like heâs biting back words. His eyes drop briefly to my mouth, and then back up again. âSee you inside?"
The silence stretches, thick and charged. I can feel my heartbeat in my ears, in my throat, in the tips of my fingers. I finally swallow, nodding. Â
The keycard trembles just slightly between my fingers as I swipe it. The soft click of the lock feels like the loudest sound in the hallway. I push the door open and step inside without turning on the lights, the muted city glow from the window casting long shadows across the carpet. I donât look back, but I hear Joelâs door shut behind him.
For the first time tonight I'm intimidated. Not by Joel but by what we're doing. About that line we thought would never be crossed again. The soft click of the adjoining door feels louder than it should, like itâs echoing inside my chest. I donât turn around. I canât. The air between us is already charged enough to make my pulse thrum in my ears.
His footsteps over the carpet are deliberate, measured, each one a reminder that the line weâve been circling for days is right here in front of us. I feel him before he touches me, his heat, his presence, the faintest trace of his cologne cutting through the hotelâs bland scent.
Then his hands are there, warm and steady, resting lightly on my shoulders as though heâs giving me one last chance to pull away. I donât.
He shifts my hair aside with a slow sweep of his fingers, tucking it over one shoulder. The cool air grazes my bare neck for only a moment before the heat of his mouth replaces it. His lips find my skin, lingering in a slow, deliberate kiss.
I let my eyes close and lean back into him, the shape of his body aligning with mine like itâs been waiting for this. His breath drifts warm over the spot he just kissed, and I shiver.
His mouth brushes my neck again, slower this time, like heâs savoring it. Then his voice comes, low and close to my ear.
âYou wanna move to the bed?â
. My throat feels tight, but I manage a small, âYeah.â
He gives my shoulders a gentle squeeze before stepping back. I turn just enough to see him move ahead of me, crossing the short distance to the bed and sitting on the edge. He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on me in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
âCome here,â he says, and itâs nothing more than two words but they pull me toward him like a spell.Â
When I stop in front of him, his hands come up to the hem of my shirt, fingers finding the first button. He doesnât rush. Each one is undone with care, the pads of his fingers brushing my skin in the process. He can see the peek of my bra but his gaze flickers up to mine as the shirt parts.
"You sure you wanna be here with me right now?â His voice is low, cautious and almost fragile.
âYes,â I whisper, my voice trembling slightly. The single word feels heavy, like a promise, an admission, a surrender all at once.
He lets out a breath I can feel more than hear, a shuddered sound of relief that seems to vibrate in the space between us. The tension Iâve been clutching in my chest loosens, just a fraction, and I realize how tight Iâve been holding my own restraint, how much of myself Iâve been bottling up.
âI need to know youâre sure about this," he murmurs, stepping a little closer. His hand hovers near mine, not touching, just tracing the air as if testing. âI donât want to push you. I donât want you to feel rushed or forced because like I told you, once this starts I won't be able to stop."Â
I nod slowly. âIâm sure,â I whisper again. âI want to be here. I donât want to stop."Â
The last button falls away, and my shirt hangs open. His fingertips trail lightly along my sides, barely there, as though heâs memorizing the outline of me before he dares to take more.
His thumbs brush against my skin, slow strokes that make my stomach tighten, and then he eases the shirt off my shoulders. It slides down my arms and pools at my feet. His gaze follows the movement like heâs cataloging every second, every inch of skin heâs revealing.
âFuck, I missed this body,â he says, voice so low itâs almost a growl.Â
The confession hits me like a jolt. I swallow hard, standing there in front of him while he sits, knees spread, hands trailing lightly over my hips.
He guides me until Iâm standing between his knees. His hands slide up my sides, over my ribs, up my spine until they unclasp my bra and my breasts spill heavily from the cups. The lacy fabric falls to the ground next to my shirt, soon joined by my pants until I stand in front of him in only my panties.Â
"Goddamn I don't deserve this," be mutters, his hands coming to cup my breasts, thumbs rolling over the nipples. I gasp, arching into his warm palms. He looks up at me again, his breath soft when he speaks. "You really want my cock tonight, baby?"Â
"Yes."Â
His hands slide down it to my waist before leaving my body. They move between his spread legs and without breaking eye contact he unbuckle his belt, button and drags down the zipper. His cock is brought out, thick and weepy.Â
"Show me how much."
His voice is so scratchy, so wrecked and I haven't even touched him properly. I drop to my knees without thought, my eyes glassy with need. I'm desperate for him.Â
My hands smooth up his muscled thighs, mouth grazing the damp tip of him as he jerks. I smile up at him before leaning forward and pressing several small, wet kisses along his shaft. He watches me intently, pink lips forming a small o shape as I extend my tongue and lick around his swollen head watching his hands grip the sheets on the bed.
My tongue dips into his slit, wiggling around before swiping away. He's dribbling precum, the taste fresh on my tongue as I begin to suckle the head of him.Â
"Take it slowly,â he murmurs softly, relaxing his legs apart further. âThatâs a good girl."
My fingers dig into his thighs as my mouth swallows him and I begin to suck slowly, tongue circling as I do. He groans, lifting his hips eagerly.
"So pretty stuffed with my cock," he breathes, watching my eyes flutter. His eyes are so heavy lidded Iâm surprised he can see much.Â
My lips thin to accommodate his girth, but even still I feel saliva leaking out the corners of my mouth. Joel sees this and I feel him thrust a little deeper.Â
"Aw, sweetheart, you're droolin'."
I take him deeper, watching his lower lip tremble for a moment before he lets out a sharp "fuck" and cups the back of my head.Â
It feels heavenly when his fingers grip my roots, holding me in place as his hips circle, sliding his cock in and withdrawing. All the while I kneel there, wanting him to use me. I squirm, my fingers sneaking into my panties, fingers splaying over my clit.Â
He smiles down at me. "Does it just feel so good to have my cock fillinâ that pretty mouth?"
I hum the affirmative around his meaty cock, feeling him slide further, hitting the back of my throat gently. Saliva drips onto the pants shoved around his hips.Â
"Uh huh, go on," Joel murmurs, his hand holding the back of my head in place. "You can take it, honey."
I gag slightly when his cock starts to feed down my throat, my face buried in the curls at the base. The scent, the sensation, it all serves to undo me.Â
"Shhh, c'mon baby," he soothes as he slides deeper, "Show me how good you can be. Show me how much you missed him."Â Â
He begins thrusting in earnest now, forcing my neck back with his movements, making me choke around him. But even as he does this my fingers scrub at my clit, so turned on I can't even see straight.
"So good, such a good girl for me,â he grunts between thrusts."You need this just as much as me."Â
He's right of course. I have been dreaming about sucking his cock since the last time. Since I was under the desk taking him.Â
"It's yours tonight, baby," he growls. "My cock. My cum. It's yours."Â
He surprises me when he suddenly slows. His voice dropping into something rougher, more dangerous.
"Get up on the bed. I can't wait."
As I scramble up onto the mattress he takes off his clothes, naked and flushed. Without ceremony he drags my panties down my legs, bringing them to his nose to inhale.Â
"Spread for me, baby," Joel orders huskily as he plants one knee on the bed. "Wanna see her. Just know she missed me."
I don't hesitate anymore. If Joel wants me bare and spread he'll get it. I don't feel shame or hesitation when I let my thighs drop for him, only excitement when he sighs, dragging me to the edge of the bed.Â
"This is the most perfect cunt I've ever seen," he says, kneeling there, his mouth descending to kiss my sternum."I've needed this for weeks," he growls against my belly, kissing down my body as he cups my breasts. "So fucking soft."
My back arches, eyes fluttering at his words and touch. He plays with my tits for a while, palming and kneading and pinching the nipples until they throb.Â
"I imagined this you know," he murmurs, looking at me. "Imagined my tongue in your cunt, hearin' those little whines of yours.â
âI wanted it," I say, rolling my hips. "Every day."Â
His tongue comes to lick a stripe up the center, fingers holding me in place when I start to buck. "Greedy thing," Joel smiles against my cunt.Â
I moan as he spreads me wide, sinking two fingers in knuckle deep. My thighs quiver when he crooks them, hitting that spot my own fingers can't reach.Â
"Joel!"
"I've got you," he murmurs, licking my clit thoroughly before scraping his front teeth gently against the slippery bud. Joel devours me, his little groans between sucks reverberate through my bones.Â
"Joel, I'm-I'm gonna-"
"Do it, darlin'. Make it good."Â
I cum with a desperate whine that turns into a stuttered moan. My fingers grip his hair tightly, holding as I run and roll against his mouth. He holds my thighs as they quake around his head, my pussy twitching as he laps up my honeyed release.Â
"That's my girl," he rasps, grinning at me from between my legs.
"I love your curls," I whisper, carding my fingers through them. He smiles sweetly.Â
"Yeah?"
I nod. "Gives me something to hold onto."
He laughs uproariously at this, grin overtaking his face, dimple carved into his cheek. "Better keep it long then," he chuckles again between kisses to my inner thighs. "If you like it."
I smile shyly at him, watching his gaze turn heated the longer I look at him. We know that what happens next will change things. He crawls up my body, pressing damp kisses on my skin along the way.Â
His hands brace on either side of my hips, knuckles brushing the comforter as he shifts forward. The muscles in his forearms flex, tendons tight beneath tanned skin, and my pulse hiccups at the sheer size of him this close.
He moves up slowly, deliberate, until his body is caged over mine. The mattress dips under his weight, his chest hovering just above mine, eyes locked on me. One knee slides up between my thighs, anchoring me in place. Heâs not touching me anywhere he shouldnât, not yet, but the way his presence presses in feels like contact all the same.Â
He doesn't speak as he's urging my legs to wrap around his hips. Not even when he grips his thick cock as he positions himself at my entrance. I stare at him, already fucked out and not even touched. My chest heaves, nipples tight, body aching for him.Â
His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth, rough pad catching on the damp skin there. "You're sure?"
"Yes."Â
His gaze drops to my mouth forming the word, and then back up again, wrestling internally before finally, blessedly, his mouth lowers to mine.
Considering the position and what we're doing is inappropriately intimate. But I throw my arms around his waist, deepening the kiss anyway. Because nothing feels better than Joel. Nothing feels right like he does.Â
His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back. He licks into my mouth deeply, groaning as our sexes grind against each other. He pulls back from kissing me, just enough for the cool air to slip between us. My lips are still tingling, parted, waiting, but the head of his cock is still pressed there at my entrance, waiting.Â
"Look at me,â he orders and when our eyes connect he pushes in.
He pushes past the last of our promises, pushes past the last of our self control and I welcome it with a whine of his name.Â
The stretch is exquisite. Just as it was that first time. But now he's taking his time, his hips rolling gently to pump achingly slow between me. He's perfect, thick and hard and I watch him saw between my legs, knowing that it's wrong, knowing that this is my boyfriends dad fucking me with his cock, but I don't care. As we move together, Joelâs forehead tips to mine, his breath ragged, eyes dark and unblinking.
"You feel too good," he murmurs against my mouth, the words rough, almost like heâs trying to scold me, but the low, shaky way they come out betrays him.Â
The guilt is there in the air between us, thick and dangerous, but it only makes my chest tighten, my body ache for him more. My fingers dig into his back, dragging over the tense muscles, and he groans like the sound is being torn out of him.
"No goin' back now."
"I donât care,â I breathe, my voice breaking on the admission. âI want you.â
Something snaps in him at that, the slow rhythm weâd been keeping giving way to something harder, faster, frantic. His hips drive into mine with a desperate edge, his hand gripping the back of my thigh to pull me closer, deeper. He thrusts brutally, the slap of wet skin lurid.Â
"You're made for me," he pants as the mattress creaks beneath us, the pace dizzying now, and neither of us are saying no. Weâre too far gone.
Itâs fast, a messy joining, his cock thrusting to the hilt, the curls between our legs rasping.Â
"C-condom?" I ask weakly, knowing it's already gone too far.Â
"I'm fucking you bare," he grunts bouncing us on the bed with his thrusts. "I'm only ever fucking you bare."
He says it with no room for debate. That's okay; I wouldn't have fought very hard anyway. The feeling of his bare cock is like nothing I've ever felt before. It's too good to blunt with a condom.Â
As if to punctuate his point he pulls out of me and slams back brutally. The fullness knocks the air from my lungs; I clutch at his shoulder, knuckles white, gasping into his mouth.
The pace is brutal in its desperation, every movement fueled by the knowledge that this is wrong. Iâm breathless, body strung tight, shuddering as he grinds against me, lost to the way he fills me, the way his body cages mine.
Joelâs jaw presses to my temple, his groan low and strained, vibrating through me. âNot stoppinâ⊠not now... Not ever.â
And I donât want him to. Not with his body slamming into mine, not with the world narrowed down to heat and guilt and need
His pumps get faster, grunts louder and I cling harder, fingers scrabbling at the curve of his shoulderblades
His mouth is everywhere; on my cheek, my jaw, devouring my lips again, swallowing every ragged moan that slips out of me. He pins my wrists to the bed, the other of us watching himself thrusting in and out of me.Â
"Look at how she takes me" Joel growls, his voice harsh, guttural. "Made to be fucked by this cock, sweetheart."
As he says that something shifts in me. Itâs not enough that he wants me. It feels like I need to own him.The thought hits me sharp and hot, tangled with a guilt I canât untangle. I really like Tess; she's never done anything bad by me. But right now, that doesnât matter. Right now, I want to be the best thing Joel has ever had, the one thing heâll never be able to forget, no matter how hard he tries.
I whine his name, unable to stop the way I gaze at him. I'm so taken by his handsome looks and the concentration in his face as he pushes in deep and rubs sweet circles around my clit.Â
That's my girl," he says as he glides between my legs, watching my tits bounce with every thrust. "You're takin' me so well, sweetheart."
"Better than her?" I whisper, even though I shouldn't, the words spilling before I can stop them.
His grip tightens on my hips, a little harsher than before, and I feel the tension coiling in him. For a heartbeat, I think heâs going to pull away, scowl, say something but he's ignoring me, pinning my wrists to the bed and starting to fuck me brutally.Â
His hips move heavily, each thrust sharp, hungry, as though he can erase the guilt.Â
âJoel,â I pant, unable to stop, âAm I better than her?â
Joelâs head snaps back just enough for me to see the flicker of something dark in his eyes! anger, hurt, maybe both. His jaw tightens. âDonât,â he grits out, almost like it pains him.
But I donât care. I feel too good, the drag of him inside me almost dizzying, our bodies moving like they were made for this. I pull him back down, my lips brushing his ear. âTell me.â
He growls low in his throat, the sound rough and unsteady, his rhythm faltering for a split second before slamming back into me harder, faster.Â
Heâs deep, every thrust deliberate, his jaw tight like heâs holding something back. I can feel it in him, that stubborn streak, the part of him that doesnât want to give me the satisfaction.
"I know you don't fuck your wife like this,â I whisper, my lips brushing his ear, my breath shaky. âI know she doesn't suck your cock like me."
His hips stutter for just a beat before he recovers, his hand tightening on my thigh. âQuit,â he warns.
I arch into him, letting out a soft moan right against his mouth, my nails dragging up his back. âI want to hear you say it.â
He shakes his head, breathing hard, eyes squeezing shut like heâs trying to block me out. âYou know I ainât-l-â
I squeeze around him deliberately, rolling my hips to meet each thrust, watching the way his face twists. âSay it, Joel,â I murmur, slow and sweet, even as my body begs for him to go faster. âTell me Iâm better.â
His rhythm falters again, a curse slipping out between clenched teeth. âStop,â he grits, but thereâs no heat in it, only desperation.
I whine against his skin, catching his bottom lip between my teeth before letting it go. My hips meet his in a sharper snap, and I feel him shudder. âTell me and you can have anything you want,â I whisper. âYou can have me anywhere, any way."
His eyes fly open, locking on mine, the fight in them fraying. He thrusts harder, like heâs trying to fuck the words away, but theyâre right there on the edge of his tongue.
âSay it,â I push again, my voice breaking as pleasure ripples through me. âTell the truth. Admit Iâm better than her.â
His breath is hot against my cheek when he finally breaks.
âYeah,â he rasps, the word torn out of him between thrusts. âGod help me- yeah.â The sound of it sends me over the edge, my body clenching around him, dragging him into a pace so frantic it makes him babble. "Never fucked a pussy this perfect. Goddamn. Never had a mouth stuck me like that. You're a fucking dream."Â
The sound of his voice, hoarse, unwilling, rocks through me harder than his thrusts. My nails bite into his shoulders, and he groans at the sting, like even my punishment turns him on. I feel it in the way his thrusts falter, then slam back in with more force, like heâs trying to drive the truth deeper. His mouth drops to my ear, his breath hot and ragged.
âYou fuckinâ-â He groans, his hips snapping against mine. "You-Christ-you squeeze me so tight when youâre close. She never-â He cuts off with a moan, like the thought alone is too much.
I gasp as he hits just right, my head tipping back. âMore,â I whisper, my voice shaky.
His hand cups the back of my thigh, forcing it higher, fucking me harder. "You taste better,â he rasps. âSound prettier when you cum. Make me lose my damn mind every time Iâm inside you.â
The words are filthy and wrong, but theyâre spilling out of him now, unstoppable. âYou beg sweeter.â His thrusts turn erratic, his mouth at my neck. âYou make me do bad things; you make me a bad man.â
His hand fists in my hair, pulling my mouth to his as we lose ourselves in it completely. The headboard knocks the wall in a relentless beat, our breath coming ragged between the slaps of skin.
âJoel-â My voice is a gasp when we pull apart, my head tipping back as his hips pound into mine.Â
He mutters things I canât catch, curses muffled against my skin, but I feel the heat of them burn straight to my core. I arch up into him, my body desperate to match his, to take everything heâs giving. The friction is dizzying, my stomach coiling tighter with each slam of his hips.
âDonât stop,â I beg, my voice breaking. âPlease, donât stop.â
His forehead presses to mine again, sweat slick between us, his breath ragged. âWe ainât every stoppinâ,â Â he says, and it sounds like both a warning and a promise. "Iâm gonna ruin you."
His thrusts turn rougher, more erratic. The tension builds sharp and fast, his name spilling from my lips in a high, desperate whine as my body seizes around him. The release rips through me in waves, my nails clawing at his back, my hips locking against his as I cum, body writhing.Â
"Fuck that's pretty," he groans, "Fuck that's so-so-"
He curses, low and guttural, the sound breaking as he drives into me twice more before heâs gone coming with a shudder that makes him collapse over me, his weight pressing me into the mattress.
For a long moment, the only sound is our uneven breathing, the two of us tangled together in the wreckage of what weâve just done
Sweaty and spent he rolls off of me, both of us warm and panting. We stare at the ceiling, shoulder to shoulder before our faces tilt to one another. Joel maps my face, his mouth curling into a lopsided grin. Â
"You wanna get room service?"
"Yes."Â
Weâre both grinning like idiots, skin flushed, and hair messy. My body still hums from him that giddy, post-coital lightness making me want to laugh at nothing at all.
He pushes off the bed, reaching for the hotel phone. âAlright. Burgers? Fries?â
âYes to all of it.â
He orders without even looking at the menu, like a man who knows exactly what will be good here and then tosses the phone back onto the cradle. âFoodâs on its way. And we got- what-twenty minutes?â
I arch a brow at him. âAnd what exactly do you propose we do with twenty minutes?â
His grin is slow, a little wicked. âShower?â
The bathroomâs big and glossy, steam curling against the glass walls by the time we step in. The heat hits my shoulders and I sigh, tipping my head back under the spray. Joelâs right behind me, his hands warm on my waist, his mouth brushing my neck lazily.
âYâknow,â he murmurs, âI like seeinâ you like this. Wet.â
âThat was a terrible double entendre.â
âWasnât tryinâ to be clever,â he says, sliding a hand over my stomach, pulling me back against him. His lips drag down my shoulder and my laugh melts into a gasp when his fingers tighten.
We donât waste all twenty minutes, but we come close.
By the time the knock at the door comes, weâre wrapped in hotel robes, hair damp, both of us still pink-cheeked. Joel answers with one hand gripping the belt of his robe, takes the tray from the server, and pushes it onto the table by the window.
âCâmere,â he says, lifting the lids to reveal two burgers, a mountain of fries, and a little dish of pickles.
We sit cross-legged across from each other, knees bumping under the table, steam from the food curling between us. I take a messy bite and groan. âGod, thatâs good.â
Joel watches me like Iâm more interesting than the burger. âIâll take your word for it.â
âEat yours,â I scold. âIâm not letting you just stare at me all night.â
âI ainât starinâ,â he says, but heâs smiling into his bite.
For a while itâs just the sound of chewing, the occasional clink of a fry being stolen from the otherâs pile. I lean back, licking salt from my fingers. âThis reminds me of my first ever date."Â
He raises a brow. âYeah?â
âYep." I giggle. "Ninth grade.â
âOh, this is gonna be good.â He leans on his elbow, giving me his full attention.
âI was such a late bloomer. I mean, painfully. No boobs, bad haircut, braces. I didnât even get asked out until everyone else had already had, like, three boyfriends. And when I finally did, it was this guy from my biology class, Jason something, who asked me to the movies. But we couldnât get a ride, so he took me to this little burger shack by the bus stop.â
Joelâs grin is already forming. âRomantic.â
âHey, it was," I say slapping his arm. "At least to me. I remember sitting there with my knees knocking because I was so nervous. He asked if I wanted to share fries, and I thought it was the smoothest thing anyone had ever said to me.â
Joel lets out a laugh, shaking his head like heâs trying not to smile too much. âAnd did you?â
âOf course. But I was so scared of looking gross eating in front of him that I barely touched them. I think I ate, like, three fries. I went home starving.â
Heâs smiling in that quiet, crinkled-eye way now, not mocking, just⊠soft. âYouâre tellinâ me your first date was at a burger joint and you didnât even eat the fries?â
âI was shy!â I protest, laughing. âPlus, I was convinced the ketchup was going to end up on my face and ruin my chances forever.â
Joel leans back, looking me over like heâs seeing a younger version of me sitting there. âYou were nervous âcause you cared. Nothinâ wrong with that.â
I shrug, feeling warm in a way that has nothing to do with the wine or the shower. âItâs funny, this burger is way better than the one I had that night, but somehow I still think about that first one sometimes.â
He nods slowly, like he gets it. âFirsts stick with you. Doesnât matter if theyâre good or bad. They just do.â
Something quiet passes between us, unspoken but undeniable, and I find myself smiling into my burger just to break the weight of it.
Joel leans back, wiping his mouth with his thumb. "Tommy ever tell you about me anâ him tryinâ to build a go-kart when we were kids?â
âNo, but this sounds promising.â
He smirks, eyes going a little faraway. âWe were maybe twelve and ten. Scavenged wheels off an old lawnmower, hammered the frame outta scrap wood we found behind my uncleâs shed. We thought we were geniuses. Didnât think about brakes. Or steering, really.â
I laugh, already picturing it. âThis is going to end with a hospital trip, isnât it?â
âClose. Ended with us takinâ it down the biggest hill in town. I was steering, âcause I was older, obviously, and halfway down, the whole thing starts rattlinâ like itâs gonna come apart. Tommyâs screaminâ in my ear, Iâm yellinâ at him to lean left, and we hit a ditch.â
I wince and grin at the same time. âYou okay?â
âWoke up in somebodyâs front yard with a busted lip. Tommy was fine, still talkinâ a mile a minute. First thing he says is, âWe gotta fix the steering.ââ
I canât stop laughing. âYou guys were fearless.â
He shrugs, but thereâs pride in it. âGuess we just liked buildinâ stuff. And breakinâ it.â
We keep talking, about music we grew up with, the best meals weâve ever had, the kind of houses weâd build if money didnât matter. Every answer of his makes me want to ask another question, to keep him talking just to hear that soft, unguarded way he speaks when heâs not trying to be careful.
At some point my hand drifts over to steal another fry from his plate, and instead of swatting me away, he catches my wrist gently, thumb brushing my pulse. His eyes meet mine, and for a second, neither of us says anything.
Joelâs the one to break it, a small smile tugging at his mouth. âYouâve got ketchup on your cheek.â
I laugh, embarrassed, but when I go to wipe it, he leans in and does it for me with his thumb.Â
"Thank goodness Jason something isn't here to see it."Â
And just like that, weâre grinning again, pretending weâre not both a little dizzy from more than just the heat of the room. And then the moment moves somewhere softer. Joelâs still holding my wrist when he says, âCâmere,â like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
I let him pull me out of the chair, still warm from the food, and the way heâs been looking at me all night. Heâs close enough that I can smell the faint salt of the fries on his skin, the soap from our shower clinging to him.
The kiss starts soft and slow but the taste of salt makes me smile against his mouth.
âWhat?â he murmurs.
âYou taste like fries.â
He huffs a little laugh. âSo do you.â Then heâs kissing me again, longer this time, his hand sliding to my hip.
When he picks me up, itâs easy for him, and my laugh turns into something softer as he carries me the few steps to the bed. He sits with me, knees touching, mouths finding each other again in little bursts between words.
Itâs unhurried. We kiss, pull back to talk, kiss again. Sometimes the talking wins, sometimes the kissing does. We start with light things, his juicer story, the time I tried to dye my hair with Kool-Aid and smelled like cherries for a week. But as the minutes pass, the topics deepen without us meaning to.
âWhat about your first time?â Joel asks eventually, voice warm and low like heâs asking me for a secret.
I smile faintly. âIt was unremarkable.â
âYeah?â
âSeventeen. He was a friend from school. We were both convinced we were behind, so we decided to just get it over with.â I laugh softly, more at the memory than the act. âIt was in his basement while his parents were upstairs watching TV. Romantic, right?â
Joel smirks but stays quiet, letting me go on.
âI remember thinking, âOkay, so thatâs what it feels like.â Not bad, not amazing, just something that happened.â I shrug. âI think I liked the idea of it more than the reality.â
âBet you werenât the only one,â Joel says gently.
âProbably not. But afterward, we sat on the floor and ate bagel bites and honestly, that part was better than the sex.â
That earns a quiet laugh from him. âGuess you learned early it ainât just about the mechanics.â
âExactly.â I glance at him, letting my gaze linger a beat longer than I mean to. âItâs about who youâre with. How you feel around them.â
He holds my eyes for a moment, something unspoken passing between us before he leans in to kiss me again.
We shift until weâre lying on our sides facing each other, my leg hooked over his, his hand drawing lazy circles on my hip. He tells me about his first time; an older girl who worked at the diner, who kissed him behind the walk-in fridge on her break.
âShe knew what she was doinâ,â he admits, grinning. âI was just tryinâ to keep up.â
"That's how I feel at the office," I grin. "You and Tommy are so brilliant, you talk so fast some days I have no idea what you're saying. Like you have you own short hand."Â
"I guess we do." He looks at me. "But you can't sell yourself short. You had Maria eating out of your hand today."
"Hardly."Â
"I was impressed." He smiles, "maybe next conference I'll let you take the lead on telling everyone about our LEED Platinum standards."
"I didn't know we were going to do that," I say, curious. "That's huge."
"We got three under our belt this year,â Joel says proudly. "Didn't wanna bring it up until next year's conference when the numbers are a little more impressive."Â
"Have you always loved doing this sort of work?"
âI love it,â he says, voice low but fierce. âI love seeing something start as a line on a blueprint and turn into a place people actually live, work, laugh⊠itâs incredible.âÂ
The way he talks, so effortlessly passionate, makes my chest tighten. I feel this swell of admiration I hadnât expected, not just for the work itself, but for him, the way he throws himself into it completely, like itâs not just a job, its part of who he is.
After that we talk about the dumbest purchases weâve ever made, the worst haircuts, the jobs we hated most.âWhat was yours?â he asks.
âCall center,â I say immediately. âEight hours of fake cheerfulness, trying to sell internet bundles to people who didnât want them. Iâd get home and my jaw would ache from smiling.â
He chuckles. âWorked at a car wash one summer. Sunburn, soap in my eyes, and a boss who thought âteam spiritâ meant makinâ us sing to customers. Hated every second.â
We laugh until our sides hurt, and when it fades, thereâs this easy quiet. My hand drifts up to push the hair from his forehead, and his eyes close like heâs savoring it. âThis feels good,â he says after a long pause.
âThe bed?â I tease.
âYour company.â His voice is certain, like itâs not up for debate.
Something warm spreads through me, slow and steady. âI like being with you too.â
We stay like that, talking about places weâve never been but want to see, things weâd do if money wasnât an issue.
âIâd have a little cabin somewhere,â I say. âBy a lake. Big kitchen, huge windows. Iâd spend all my mornings there.â
âSounds nice,â he says. âIâd have a shop. Big enough to build whatever I wanted. No deadlines, no clients tellinâ me I measured wrong. Just buildinâ.â
âIâd visit,â I say, and itâs half a joke, half something else.
âYou better.â
The conversation wanders again, favorite books, the best meal weâve ever had, the music that makes us feel something even after a hundred listens. At one point, weâre lying so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath when he talks.
âYour eyes change when youâre tellinâ a story,â he says suddenly.
I blink. âThey do?â
âYeah. You get this look like youâre relivinâ it when you talk. Itâs nice to watch.â
I donât know what to do with that, so I kiss him instead. It goes on like this for what feels like hours. Kissing until weâre breathless, pulling back to talk, laughing over nothing, and falling quiet again just to look at each other.
 The hotelâs air conditioner hums low, and Joelâs thumb keeps making lazy strokes over my arm like he doesnât even realize heâs doing it.
âYâget real quiet when youâre sleepy,â he murmurs, voice already softened by exhaustion.
âIâm not sleepy,â I protest, even though my eyelids feel heavy.
He gives a little chuckle, chest rumbling against my cheek. âYeah, you are.â
I tip my head back to look at him. âIf I go to sleep, youâll go to sleep. And then itâll be morning.â
âAnd that's a bad thing?â he asks, smiling faintly.
I nod my head, stubborn. âYes. I don't want to waste this time."Â
So we keep talking, voices low and wandering, about the best way to make coffee, about what weâd order if we could have one meal from anywhere in the world right now, about how weâd spend a day if there were no clocks.
Joel yawns mid-sentence and rubs his nose against my hair. âYour turn. Tell me somethinâ else âbout you.â
I think for a moment, smiling sleepily. âI like thunderstorms. But only when Iâm inside, watching. I donât like being caught in the rain.â
âMeans Iâll have to make sure youâve always got somewhere warm to wait one out,â he murmurs, eyes almost closed.
âThatâs sweet,â I whisper.Â
âMm-hm,â he hums, already halfway to dreaming.Â
The conversation slows, stretching out between yawns and half-finished thoughts. My sentences trail off; his replies are soft hums.
Eventually, I glance at the clock. âItâs almost three. I should go back to my room.â
He doesnât open his eyes, shifting behind me and pulling me back into his chest. "Five more minutes." His arm hooks tight around my middle, his breath fanning warm against the back of my neck.
âJoel-"
âFive,â he murmurs again, softer this time, already on the edge of sleep. âThen you can go.â
I should go. But God, it feels so good, the weight of him, the heat of his body pressed into mine, the steady rhythm of his breathing. I could fall asleep like this and not care about anything else.But I remember what he said before, how sleeping together, holding each other like this, was crossing a line. And I donât want to cross it. I don't want the memory of this night spoiled.
So I stay just long enough to memorize the way it feels, the way his hand curls loosely over my hip, the way his breath tickles the fine hairs at my nape and then very carefully, I turn my head, pressing my lips softly to his temple. Then, carefully, I slip out from under his arm. I stand there for a moment in the dim light, watching him. He looks unguarded in sleep, lashes resting against his cheek.
I pad to the side of the room quietly, but before I open the connecting door I glance back one last time. Heâs on his side now, robe loose, the empty space beside him still warm from me. And I know despite everything heâs said, despite everything Iâve told myself, that intimacy is already here.
Maybe itâs been here longer than either of us has wanted to admit.
rating: X (not for minors) \ 10,2k words / bf dad joel miller x female reader
tags: if you don't like smut and morally ambiguous characters this is not the fic for you. you accidentally fuck your bf's dad. and then you keep fucking him.
masterlist
For everyone who has been following this fic I really luv ya. This chapter is what you've been waiting for. I wrote it quick because you all seem to very feral for this dynamic as am I. I have an ending in mind so I kind of know where I'm going with this. I hope you leave disgusting long comments and hilarious reblogs so I know it was worth working through my lunch hour. And you can blame @gothicpaperback for this filthy chapter because she's been texting me about it nonstop and I love her for it. đ€
You have to pick the places you don't walk away from. - Joan Didion
Jack is warm and solid beside me, his breath slowing into that deep, steady rhythm that means heâs already gone. The streetlight outside cuts a pale stripe across the bedroom wall.
I should be asleep too, but my brain wonât shut up. Joel in the kitchen, the hard ridge of his cock outlined in his sweatpants. That heated look he had for me. The internship. The way the evening went sideways.
Internship. At Joelâs office. Joelâs cock. Internship. Joel.Â
The words keep looping like a bad pop song. I roll onto my side, pressing into Jackâs back, curling my knees up until they rest against his. Heâs so warm itâs like my body is trying to soak him in. My fingers rest lightly against his hipbone through the soft cotton of his boxers.
If I close my eyes, I can pretend my only worry is whether Iâll be good at filing things. That Iâm just some normal girl about to start her first office job. That the man in charge isnât the same one who fucked me in the cab of his truck, who murmured in my ear in that low drawl, who-
My stomach twists.
I tell myself Iâm anxious because itâs going to be awkward; the clipped politeness, the constant tiptoeing around each other while Tess and Jack stay blissfully oblivious. I picture myself at a desk, the hum of printers, the smell of coffee, Joel's voice from the other room giving orders. The way heâll probably ignore me entirely, or worse, glance over just enough to remind me that he hasnât forgotten either.Â
And then⊠thereâs this other thought. It creeps in before I can slam the door on it, the idea of being trapped in that space with him. The air between us tight and electric in a way that has nothing to do with fluorescent lights and blueprints. That stubborn part of me that remembers exactly how his eyes looked when he wanted me, how my skin lit up under his touch.
The thought sends a rush of heat straight through me. My knees press harder against Jackâs. My fingers curl into his soft shirt. I hate myself.Â
Jackâs here, trusting, sleeping, completely unaware. Tess went out of her way to help me. I should be grateful, focused on the opportunity, professional. Not lying here in the dark letting my body react like some traitor just because Joelâs face flashed in my mind.
I shift back a little; creating space between me and Jack, but that only makes the cold creep in. My head feels loud. Like I can hear my blood moving through my veins.
Tomorrow morning, Iâll smile at Tess and say thank you again. Iâll go into that office with my chin up my eyes clear. Iâll keep my mind exactly where it should be; on learning, on the job.
But here, now, in the dim bedroom with Jackâs steady breathing filling the quiet, I canât shake it, the sick mix of dread and anticipation curling in my gut. The knowledge that walking into Joelâs office wonât just make me nervous. Itâll make me remember. And remembering is dangerous.
I turn onto my back, stare up at the ceiling, and will myself to think about literally anything else.
__________________________________________
Tess greets me as I sail into the kitchen Monday morning. She's holding out a thermos of coffee for me. "Joel's already in the truck, honey."Â
 I pause taking the thermos from her. I wonder if she made one up for Jack before he left with our car. My car is you want to get technical. But his job is a far drive and mine, I could get to by bus.Â
Miller Bros Construction Company head office is about a thirty minute bus ride from down the street. I've already packed my bag, worn my best clothes and popped a little notepad and pencil into my purse. But I can't stop looking at Tess.
 Joel is already in the truck, honey. The truck you fucked him in. The truck where he fucked his cum into you.Â
My jaw hinges open. "What?"
"To drive you to the office," Tess explains, amused at my face.Â
"Oh, no, I don't want a ride," I say quickly. "I wanted to learn the bus route."
"Nonsense you're both going to the same place," she laughs looking at her watch. "And you're gonna be late."Â
As if on cue I hear the faint sound of a horn beeping from outside. Tess rolls her eyes, gently urging me to the door.Â
The morning air hits me like a cool slap, crisp enough to sting my cheeks. The drivewayâs still damp from last nightâs rain, a sheen of water catching the pale sunlight. Joelâs truck idles at the curb, a squat, solid shape in muted blue.
Heâs in the driverâs seat, one arm hooked over the wheel, eyes fixed straight ahead. The horn mustâve been his version of knocking politely.
I tug my bag higher on my shoulder, muttering a half-hearted âByeâ over my shoulder to Tess before making the walk down. Each step feels like it takes twice as long as it should, not because itâs far, but because every single one brings me closer to him.
The moment I open the passenger door, the scent hits me: sawdust, coffee, and the faint ghost of cologne.
âMorning,â I say, my tone flat but polite.
His gaze flickers toward me for less than a second before settling back on the windshield. âYouâre late.â
I click the seatbelt into place harder than necessary. âNot my idea. I was going to take the bus.â
He doesnât respond, just shifts the truck into gear, pulling away from the curb with a smooth, deliberate motion. The engineâs rumble fills the space between us, a low vibration under my feet. I can feel it through the seat, through my spine.
The cab is warm, almost too warm. I push my coat collar open, trying not to fidget. My knee bounces once before I force it still. His hand rests on the gearshift, fingers tapping a slow, uneven rhythm that makes my pulse match it in spite of myself.
I steal a glance at him. His jaw is tight; his profile carved in the morning light. I see the faint line of stubble, the crease between his brows. He looks exactly like he did the night in the pub when I first noticed him, only now thereâs no half-smile, no hint of invitation. Just that closed, careful face.
âYou donât have to drive me again,â I say, breaking the silence if only to keep my brain from sinking deeper into it.
âWasnât planninâ on it.â
The way he says it makes my jaw tighten.
âGood,â I say, and stare out the window at the blur of houses sliding past.
We pass through the heart of town in a steady, reluctant rhythm: traffic lights blinking yellow, a few early risers walking dogs, the bakery already spilling the smell of bread into the street. Joel doesnât put the radio on, and Iâm certain itâs deliberate; an unspoken rule that nothing fills the space but the sound of the engine.
Every time he shifts gears, his arm moves close enough that I can feel the heat of him. I tell myself to ignore it, but my body betrays me, tuned to the small things: the scrape of his knuckle against the worn leather shifter, the faint flex in his forearm, the way his thigh shifts against the seat.
The closer we get to the industrial strip, the more my stomach knots.
The rest of the drive is nothing but the hum of the road and the sound of my own heartbeat, too loud in my ears. Every time he shifts gears, his arm moves close enough that I can feel the heat of him, and I hate that my body notices.Â
Itâs ridiculous. Itâs infuriating. Itâs the longest ten minutes of my life
Joel swings the truck into a gravel lot with practiced ease, pulling up in front of a low building with weathered siding and the companyâs name painted in bold, blocky letters. He kills the engine. The silence after the rumble feels deafening.
âHere,â he says simply, as if itâs the only word heâs willing to give me.
I nod once, yanking my bag from my lap, and push open the door. The cold air rushes in, sharp and clean. It feels better than the warmth of the cab.
I already know the relief wonât last. The gravel crunches under my boots as I follow Joel toward the entrance. He doesnât wait for me, just strides ahead with that unhurried, purposeful gait of his.
The front door is heavy, painted in the same muted blue as the truck, and when he pushes it open, the scent of the place hits me: paper, coffee, and the faint, sharp tang of fresh-cut lumber drifting in from somewhere unseen.
Itâs warmer inside, the kind of warmth that clings to you after a few minutes. A couple of desks line one wall, all stacked with folders, rolls of drafting paper, and neat little piles of business cards. A young blonde is on the phone, chatting away and making notes on a sticky pad.
Thereâs a corkboard crammed with site maps and schedules. The hum of an air conditioner fills the corners, steady and low. And then thereâs a Tommy leaning back in a swivel chair behind one of the desks, phone in one hand, a pencil tucked behind his ear.Â
"Well, look who finally made it.â His voice is lighter than Joelâs, tinged with amusement but without the edge.
I smile back, relieved at the lack of tension.Â
I glance briefly at Joel, whoâs already halfway down the hall with a muttered, âShow her where sheâs workinâ,â before disappearing into what I assume is his office down the hall.
"Thanks for the opportunity," I say honestly to Tommy. Despite how awkward things are, this will help my career.Â
His grin widens, genuine. âI mean, this is mostly construction management, but we do a lot of design consulting. Youâll get to see how a plan actually becomes a building, all the messy parts no one tells you about.â
Thereâs an easy warmth in the way he says it, and it makes some of the tension in my shoulders ease. I hadnât realized how tightly Iâd been holding myself since climbing into Joelâs truck.
Tommy steps aside, gesturing toward a desk near the window. âThisâll be yours for now. Weâll set you up with some basic stuff, get you on the drafting software so you can poke around. Youâll probably be shadowing me most days. Joelâs got his hands full with the client side.â
Sweet relief floods me. I have no interest in shadowing Joel. If I can help it I would love if I didn't have to interact with him ever again. I focus on the view from the desk. Outside, the lot opens onto a sprawl of metal-sided warehouses and the pale winter sky.
âThis is kind of perfect,â I admit, settling my bag on the chair.
âGood,â Tommy says, leaning against the edge of his own desk. âAnd hey, you ever got questions, even the dumb ones, you ask me. Iâll give you the real answer before Joel gives you the scary one.â
That earns a laugh out of me, quick and unexpected. It feels good, like a breath of clean air after a long time under water.
From down the hall, a door clicks shut. Heavy footsteps. The air shifts before Joel even appears, as though the temperature changes just from his presence.
Tommy straightens, glancing toward his brother. âWe were just gettinâ her set up.â
Joelâs eyes flick over me before he nods once. âGood.â Then, to Tommy, âSheâs your problem today. I'm going to the Dufresne place."Â
And just like that Joel is gone, disappearing like a ghost out the door and I am thankful for it.Â
Tommy smirks. âDonât take it personal. Heâs always like that before his second coffee.â
I manage a thin smile, though my pulse is still loud in my ears.Â
For the rest of the day I get used to the design software, delighted at how easy it is to use. Tommy comes over every so often to answer questions. When the day comes to a close and Joel isn't back I scan my phone for the bus timetable. I'm new to town but I'll figure it out.Â
"How're you gettin' home?" Tommy asks me looking concerned.Â
"Bus."Â I look at the timetable on my phone trying to situate myself when I feel Tommy's hand on my lower back.Â
"C'mon. I'll give you a ride."Â
Tommy walks me out to his truck, a battered red Chevy that rattles a little when it starts up. The air has dropped to a sharper chill than this morning. The parking space is empty, the blue truck gone, and for some reason the sight leaves a strange hollow in my chest.
âGuess youâre stuck with me as chauffeur,â Tommy says, grinning as he pulls onto the road.
âNot stuck at all,â I say honestly. Heâs been easy to talk to all day, patient in explaining the drafting software, never making me feel like I was asking too much.
The ride back is comfortable, broken by stories about past projects and Tommyâs enthusiastic rundown of the coffee shop down the street from the office, apparently the best muffins in the city.
When we pull into the driveway, Tess is already stepping out onto the porch, sweater sleeves pushed up, her smile warm. âYouâre staying for dinner, right?â she calls before Tommy can even answer.
He glances at me, smirking. âLooks like I am.â
Inside, the kitchen smells of roasted chicken and thyme, steam fogging the lower panes of the window. Tess, sliding a tray of potatoes out of the oven while directing Tommy to grab plates from the cabinet.
âJoelâs not with you?â
âNaw, had to check the Dufresne place. Takinâ his time though.â
I take my usual spot at the table, opposite the empty chair at the head. Joelâs chair. Tess doesnât comment on his absence but I catch the faint pull between her brows when she sets his place anyway.
The table is set for five, the roast chicken steaming in the center, potatoes glistening in a wide dish. Tess moves with the controlled grace of someone trying not to show sheâs annoyed, but I can feel it radiating from her in waves.
Jack comes in from the living room, grinning when he sees Tommy. âHey, man.â
They shake hands, clasping each otherâs shoulders, and Tess urges us all to sit just after Jack gives me a quick kiss and hello. I'm so thankful to see him, my heart beating steadily.Â
Joelâs chair at the head of the table is conspicuously empty. We eat without him at first. Tess asks about my day and Tommy tells some story about a near-disaster on site, how one of the guys nearly backed a truck into the porta-potty.Â
Weâre halfway through the meal when the front door opens and Joel steps in, shoulders broad under his dark jacket, the faint scent of whiskey cutting through the roasted herbs. His eyes flick over the table, landing briefly on me before moving on.
âEveninâ,â he says to the table, low.
âYouâre late,â Tess says evenly, not quite looking at him.
âCaught up at work,â he replies, hanging up his jacket. His voice is calm, but thereâs something in it; not slurred, not exactly, but softened around the edges in a way that speaks to more than one drink.
Tess places the serving spoon down with a muted clink. âSit.â She doesnât look up as she passes him the plate.
He takes his seat, muttering something like thanks, and digs in without meeting anyoneâs eyes. When he finally does speak, itâs to Tommy. âAppreciate you takinâ her home.â
Tommy just shrugs. âNo problem.â
No one points out that the remark sounds like a formality rather than gratitude, but the weight of it hangs there anyway. The scrape of his fork against the plate is the loudest sound in the room for a long moment.
Tommy senses it instantly. âSo, uh,â he says brightly, âJack tells me youâre savin' up for your own place.â
Jack glances at me, then nods. âYeah, trying to find something thatâs not a shoebox but also doesnât cost a kidney.â
Tommy laughs, shaking his head. âYouâll get there. You shouldâve seen my first place, thought it had charm until the ceiling leaked brown water every time it rained.â
Even Tess smiles faintly at that. I let out a polite chuckle, but Joel doesnât so much as twitch.
After dinner, Tommy leaves with a promise to show me the coffee shop tomorrow. Tess hugs him at the door, her expression softening in a way it hasnât all evening.
Jack and I retreat to the couch, a mindless action movie playing while we curl under a blanket. His arm drapes over my shoulders, his body warm against mine, but my attention drifts. I keep thinking about Joelâs silence at the table, the way Tessâs jaw tightened every time he ignored a thread of conversation.
Eventually, I excuse myself to use the bathroom. The hallway is dim except for the warm slant of light spilling from a half-open door! Joel and Tessâs bedroom. I mean to pass by quietly, but the voices inside stop me cold.
âYou didnât even drive her home, Joel?â Tessâs tone is sharp, incredulous.
A pause. The rustle of fabric, like someone shifting on the bed. âTommy was there.â
âThatâs not the point.â Her voice rises just enough to carry. âYouâve been cold to her since the moment you met. And for what? Because youâve decided sheâs not good enough for Jack?â
My stomach twists. I shouldnât be here, shouldnât be listening, but my feet feel rooted to the carpet.
Joelâs voice is lower now, harder to catch. âItâs not like that.â
âThen what is it?â Tess presses. âBecause from where Iâm standing, youâre going out of your way to make her feel unwelcome in this house. And I donât know why. Sheâs trying, Joel. Sheâs been nothing but polite. If this is about protecting Jack, fine, but youâre going to end up pushing him away too.â
I picture him leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Tessâs voice softens, but thereâs steel in it. âYou need to smarten up before you make another decision youâll regret.â
Another decision. The phrase lands like a stone in my chest.
Joel exhales, a sound caught between frustration and surrender. âYou donât understand.â
âThen explain it to me,â she says, unyielding.
But he doesnât. Thereâs just that long, taut silence, and I realize heâs not going to give her anything. What could he possibly say? That he fucked his sonâs girlfriend? That he cheated on his wife?Â
I back away on quiet steps, my pulse thudding in my ears. I keep walking until Iâm in our bedroom, shutting the door softly behind me.
Jackâs voice drifts from the living room, calling something about the movie. I murmur back an excuse about being tired and slip into bed, lying on my side in the dark. The words loop in my mind. Another decision heâll regret. I donât know what she meant. I donât know if I want to. But the one thing I do know is that Joel didnât deny it.
__________________________________________
The next morning my alarm goes off and I seriously debate just not going. The thought of another intense ride with Joel is making me ill.Â
"Wake up sleepyhead." Jack's voice is at my ear, body warm. "I wanna grab a coffee before driving us."Â
"Huh?" I'm still groggy with sleep, staring at him.Â
"I don't work until ten today," Jack smiles, kissing the bridge of my nose. "I wanted to drive my girl to work. I wanted to drive you yesterday but I couldn't change the schedule."Â
I throw my arms around his neck, peppering his face with thankful kisses.Â
The car ride to the office is quiet in the best way. Jack reaches over to squeeze my hand as we navigate the streets, a gentle reminder that Iâm not alone in this, even if Iâm stepping into a world Iâve never been a part of before.
âYou were so tired last night I didn't wanna bug you,â he says softly. âBut how did it go yesterday?"
I fake a smile. "Fine. Your uncle Tommy is really nice."
"Yeah, always has been. He's a good guy. "His eyes fly from the road back to me. He can see I'm still tense. "Donât try to do everything at once, babe. This is only your second day. Be kind to yourself.â
I smile at him, nerves fluttering in my chest. âIâll try.â
A small kiss, a lingering hand squeeze in the car and I step out into the morning sunlight, carrying a mix of excitement and anxiety.
I make my way through the door and Tommy greets me in the lobby with an easy grin. âReady to get started on day two?â
I nod, fumbling slightly with my notebook and pen.Â
Tommyâs movements are fluid and patient, never rushed. I find myself relaxing under his easy warmth, grateful for a guide who doesnât make me feel like an intruder.
âYouâll mostly be observing today,â he says as he hands me a hard hat. âTaking notes, following me around, asking questions. I want questions, you hear?â
I nod again, grateful for the sensible start as I follow close after him. And despite his offers that evening, I take the bus home claiming that I have a few stops to make. In truth I need this bit of autonomy in my day, a chance to be away from the Miller's for a bit.Â
Jack changes his shifts to start at ten which means he comes home later, but it also means that he drives me to work each morning.Â
"I want to see you off in the morning," he explains one night cuddling under the covers. "Itâs important."Â
I know that Jack is doing this in part because of our break. That the guilt of ending things prompts this affection. And I don't mind, I appreciate it.
Meanwhile after his talk with Tess, Joel seems almost tolerable at home when Tess and Jack are around. Not warm, but heâll speak to me without that dismissive tone and maybe even offer to pass the salt. Â
Tess has a way of softening the edges in a room, smoothing him out like sheâs spent years perfecting the art of keeping him socially acceptable. But the moment I step into his domain at the office something changes. Itâs like a switch flips.
 The air is different here, and so is he. Joel doesnât look at me unless he has to, and when he does, itâs like heâs measuring how much space I take up and deciding itâs already too much. His voice stays low, professional, but thereâs no mistaking the cold current underneath.
I catch myself wondering if itâs because Tess isnât here to see it or if heâs making a point. But it's an alliance I'm willing to endure because every two weeks our bank account grows thanks to Jack's job.
Itâs the third Friday of June when things fall to absolute pieces.
__________________________________________
Tommyâs truck hums along the back roads to the site, windows cracked to let in the late-morning breeze. He chats easily, pointing out construction quirks, joking about some rookie mistake from last week. His voice is warm, steady, and I find myself relaxing, letting the nervous tight coil in my stomach loosen bit by bit.
âYouâre gonna love this part,â he says, pulling into the gravel lot. âThis is where the magic actually happens, the chaos that somehow turns into a building.â
I follow him through the site, eyes wide. Scaffolding towers above me, steel beams crisscrossing against the sky. Piles of lumber and brick line the perimeter. The air smells like sawdust, fresh concrete, and something metallic.
Tommy hands me a hard hat and a neon vest, fussing with the straps to make sure they fit snugly. âSafety first, architecture prodigy.â
I laugh, despite my nerves, and slip them on. The weight of the hard hat feels grounding, almost protective. I clutch my notebook and pen, ready to scribble everything down, desperate not to miss a single detail.
He notices every time I hesitate in asking a question, correcting my measurements gently without ever making me feel incompetent. I can feel my confidence building under his quiet encouragement.
Hours pass, sunlight shifting across the beams, dust motes floating lazily in the shafts of light. I scribble notes furiously, trying to absorb it all, losing myself in the technicalities and the rhythm of the site. I don't even notice when Joel arrives until Tommy mentions it.Â
I glance up to see Joel with his clipboard in hand, speaking with a foreman. His posture is taut, deliberate, like heâs part sculpture, part predator. At first, he doesnât meet my gaze; his attention is elsewhere, to the work, to the people, to the site. But the moment I glance back, I feel it: the faint, almost imperceptible awareness of being watched.
And then our eyes meet.
Its brief, a flash across the site, but it ignites something inside me. His expression is assessing, unreadable, and my pulse spikes sharply, then retreats, then spikes again as though my body canât quite settle. He turns away as if nothing happened, but I know better. The tension lingers, heavy and electric, pulsing through the air between us.
I scribble faster, shaking off the flush creeping up my neck, telling myself itâs ridiculous. Heâs my bossâs father, technically, and thereâs Jack, and this is a work site, and yet⊠that brush of awareness, that unspoken acknowledgment, makes every breath feel charged.
But my attention keeps drifting. Every time I glance up, Joel is somewhere else; consulting, pointing, moving with controlled energy. Thereâs a rhythm to him, heâs confident force that draws the eye even when he isnât intentionally looking at me. And when he does glance my way, the contact is fleeting, teasing in its restraint.
The contrast between he and Tommy is striking. Tommy is warmth, a tether to the present, making the site feel safe, manageable. Joel is fire beneath the calm, unpredictable, and yet tethered just enough to the rules of propriety to make the tension unbearable.
I catch him once leaning against a support beam, clipboard tucked under one arm, surveying the site. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat longer this time, and I feel something coil in my stomach that isnât fear. Something sharper, hotter, that makes my pen shake in my hand. Heâs deliberately avoiding me, but heâs aware, and that unspoken load, that careful edge of attention, makes the air around him thrum.
Tommy doesnât press, just keeps explaining the next stage of construction, laughing at his own jokes, occasionally glancing my way to make sure Iâm following. Heâs a steady presence, the calm amid my spiraling awareness of Joel. And yet, every time I look up from my notes, my eyes find Joel, and that pulse of tension hits again.
"Shit," Tommy says, glancing up into the sky. "Looks like it might rain later. That'll put us behind."Â
I frown, thinking of how poorly dressed I am if that turns out to be the case. Tommy is facing me, brow down.Â
"You mind grabbing the umbrella from the car?"Â
I nod, taking the keys from his outstretched hand, happy to be helpful and jog to the truck. When I return Tommy and Joel are standing shoulder to shoulder, facing the site. They donât notice me approaching.
 âI have to sayâŠâ I hear Tommy saying, âSheâs really not like most interns. Pays attention, actually seems to want to learn.â
My chest tightens. I freeze mid-step, suddenly aware of how conspicuous my presence might be if they notice me listening. But at the same time I don't know how to interrupt. Joel doesnât answer immediately, but the subtle shift in tone is enough for me to feel the weight of him in the room.Â
"S'good to know."
âMost interns just want to check the boxes, get the credit, and leave,â Tommy adds. âShe actually engages with the work.â
I canât help the small thrill that pulses through me at hearing this. The words make me warm all over, but thereâs a quick, painful twist at the thought of Joel listening, too. Part of me wants him to agree, to nod, to validate that yes, I can do this and yet another part knows that even the smallest acknowledgment from him would light a fire I donât want to fuel.
âAndâŠâ Tommyâs tone shifts slightly, teasing, playful, drawing the word out. ââŠaccording to some of the guys havin' something pretty to look at around the site doesnât hurt either.â
The sound of Joel snapping is like a whip cracking through the air. âTommy!âÂ
His voice is harsh, clipped, and tighter than it should be. Â I feel it in my chest as I catch my breath, suddenly aware of the rapid thrum of my heartbeat. Heâs turned, cheeks flushed, jaw rigid, tension running through every line of him.
Tommy freezes mid-laugh, the half-smile on his face faltering. âI didn't say it!â
My stomach twists. Part of me wants to laugh, not out of humor, but nervous, disbelieving energy. My cheeks warm, partly from embarrassment, partly from the rush of awareness that comes with knowing Iâm being discussed, being evaluated, being . . Desired?
Tommy freezes, hands raised slightly as if to placate him. âI swear, Joel, it was what the guys were sayin'. You know how they are.â
âSheâs here to work. Not to be stared at.â
The words hit me in an odd way. Not because heâs angry at me but because of how protective he sounds, how sharp his tone, the way it vibrates in the air and lands somewhere deep in my chest. A guilty part of me thrills at it, while another part screams that I shouldnât be thinking about it this way.
âYou never get this up in arms when they perv on Luna.â
âShe ainât dating my son.â
âJoel, these are blue collar men. Thatâs just the way they talk. You know that, you used to be that. Winking at the pretty women who walked by. Itâs how you met Tess for chrissakes!â
âEnough.â Joelâs voice is low, dangerous, and full of controlled fire.
"I didn't mean anything by it," Tommy says and to his credit he sounds embarrassed. "Was just shop talk. Hell, I'm old enough to be her daddy. I just think she's a bright spot around the place."
My mind is a riot of conflicting thoughts: admiration for Tommyâs easy charm and warmth, nervous excitement at his praise, the sudden realization of how aware Joel is, how strangely protective.Â
I'm shaky, both in nerves and tension and the blueprints drop from my hands onto the grass. I make a small noise and the brothers turn to see me kneeling to pick them up.Â
"There she is," Tommy says sweetly. âWe were just talkinâ about you.â
âOh yeah?â
âYeah. Youâre a breath of fresh air, wantinâ to learn, actually carinâ.â
I smile, handing him the umbrella but all I can feel is Joel's eyes on my profile.Â
âThank you, Tommy.â
A beam shifts under a crane, metal groaning, and I flinch. Joel mutters something under his breath and goes stalking over toward the foreman, issuing a command with a clipped tone, sharp but controlled. Even from twenty feet away, the authority in his voice sends a shiver down my spine
By the time we wrap up for lunch, Iâm flushed, exhausted and entirely distracted. Joel disappears to speak with the project manager, leaving me with Tommy.
He doesn't return.Â
My hands shake slightly as I gather my notebook, pretending itâs from fatigue and not from the electric, impossible awareness of Joelâs gaze.
Tommy glances at me, eyebrows raised. âYou okay?â
I manage a smile, tucking my pen into my pocket. âYeah. Just taking it all in.â
On the drive back to the office the storm clouds roll in, casting a darkness over the scene. Tommy's radio plays something cheery and twangy but I'm distracted.Â
"I'm gonna drop you at the office, and you can finish filling those notes from today, yeah? Once you're done email em over to me and Joel. I gotta go up to Laredo for a meetin' and wanna beat the traffic."Â
"Sounds good."Â
The office is quiet except for the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the soft tap of rain against the windows. Outside, sheets of water run down the glass in silvery rivers, distorting the streetlights into blurry streaks.Â
Luna is gone for the day, so sheâs not there to give me help on my annotations. So Iâm there well past closing, hunched over my desk using the online filling system Tommy showed me. Honestly, I like this part of the job, the focus, the control, the quiet after the chaos of the site. Itâs meditative, almost comforting, and it keeps my thoughts from drifting back to Joel too often.
The rain drumbeats a steady rhythm on the roof, calming in its constancy. My coat hangs forgotten on the back of my chair, a thin jacket that offers little protection if I had to venture outside. I shiver slightly, curling into myself.
I finish sending off the files, my fingers inching to my phone, noting the time. Jack is still at work so it's best to call an Uber. The office door opens suddenly, a gust of wind and a faint spray of rain sneaking in behind it. I glance up, startled.
Joel.
Water drips from his hair and jacket, puddling faintly near his boots. His eyes scan the office, expression tight, jaw set. He takes a step inside, shaking out the excess water from his sleeves, the sound sharp in the empty room. The air seems to change the moment he crosses the threshold, charged and heavy.
âYouâre still here,â he says, voice low and clipped, irritation mingling with something I canât quite name. He doesnât wait for an answer, just stands there, clipboard tucked under one arm, gaze flicking over the invoices scattered on my desk.
âI was just finishing up,â I say, suddenly conscious of how soaked and unprepared I am for this downpour. âI wanted to get these notes filed and sent before I left.â
He doesnât move closer, but I feel the heat of his awareness pressing against me. Itâs impossible to ignore, the way his eyes sweep over me, brief, assessing. He hates that he notices me and I can feel the tension vibrating between us, charged.
âI wish I knew it was going to rain,â I say trying to lighten the mood, aware of the thin jacket and flats that leave me cold and damp. My voice wavers just slightly, betraying how ridiculous I must seem.
Joel exhales sharply, brushing his fingers through his wet hair, irritation and something else flickering across his features. He shifts his weight, just enough for me to notice the tight coil in his shoulders.Â
âDo you think you'd be able to give me a ride home?"Â
His jaw tightens imperceptibly. The words are simple, but the effect is immediate: a crack in his carefully maintained composure.Â
âM'not a taxi." His tone is low, controlled. Not angry yet, just sharpened at the edges.
"Didn't say you were," I sigh, exhausted. "Just trying to save money on an Uber but don't worry about it."Â
He watches me tidy up the desk, working fast before pulling out my phone. He takes a seat behind his desk, still watching as I order the car. A few moments pass as I type in the information, exhaling when I see itâll be a good thirty minutes before one shows up.
"Thought you were supposed file the notes from the last build."
I glance over to see Joel squinting at the computer screen, frowning.
âI did.â
âYouâre supposed to send the attachment to me and Tommy.â
âI already did it."
"Where?" He doesnât even look my way when he asks because to Joel Miller I'm invisible, I'm something he despises as much as he desires and I'm furious at him for taking it out on me.
 I throw up my hands. "For fucks sake, Joel, open your eyes! It's there in your inbox. I sent the link ten minutes ago."
The tension breaks, sending Joel to his feet and flying my way with a frenzied look in his eyes. "The fuck you just say?"
"I'm so sick of this!â I shout, pushing myself out of the desk chair and throwing myself his way. âIâve been nothing but respectful while you make it your mission to treat me like Iâm a piece of shit!"Â
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking there. âDonât start.â
âOh, so you can ignore me, but I canât say anything about it?â I take a step forward, the words coming faster now, sharper. âYouâve made it crystal clear you donât like me. Fine. I donât care. But I havenât done a damn thing to deserve the way you look at me, the way you talk to me when no one else is around.â
He stands up from his chair, body wide, frame looming. His voice dips even lower, dangerous now. âYou think I like having you around? You think I donât see the way you-â
âThe way I what?â I snap. âBreathe near you? Exist in the same room?â
Something flares in his eyes and he closes the distance between us in two strides, the air between us crackling.
âYouâre in my house,â he says, his voice so low itâs almost a growl. âAt my table. And now youâre in my office.â
âI didnât ask for any of this,â I shoot back. âI didnât ask for Tess to push the internship. I didnât ask to be under your roof. You think I want to be around you?â
His mouth twists into something bitter. Â I take a step toward him this time, closing the last inch between us until I can feel the heat coming off him.Â
âYou treat me like shit because you feel guilty every time you see me," I say. "Like somehow it's all my fault."Â
Joel is quiet, his body still and I believe what I'm saying is getting through to him. But then he shakes his head, looking at me darkly. âDonât,â he warns, but his low voice has lost some of its certainty.
âDonât what?â I press, my tone sharper now, almost daring. âCall you out?â
Weâre too close, too worked up, and neither of us is backing down.
"Maybe it's not just that you feel guilty," I hiss. "Maybe it's that you get a hard on every time we're alone."
His nostrils flare. For a second, I think heâs going to shove past me and leave the office altogether and I beat him to it, throwing my purse over my shoulder and moving to the office for.Â
He moves so fast I donât have time to react; his hand catches my arm, stopping me. Before I can say a word, he's got a fist in the back of my shirt, pressing me against his desk until my chest is flush with the wood. Â
âJoel-" I gasp, half protest, half disbelief.
âShut up,â he grits out, his breath rough in my ear. His other hand is on my hip, forcing me still. âYou wanted to know why I treat you the way I do? This is why. You talk like a fucking whore.â
Weâre both breathing hard, and I can feel him behind me, too close, too warm, and too big. Then I feel the unmistakable press of his cock, solid and throbbing against me.Â
"And you're hard," I spit over my shoulder. "So what does that say about you?"Â
I should move. I should want to move. Except I donât actually want to move. Feeling his hands on me, the press of his weight against me makes my body come alive and the harder it is to remember why this is a mistake.Â
The guilt is already there, pressing heavy in my ribs, whispering reminders of who he is, who I am, what this would cost. I picture Jackâs face, Tessâs laugh, the kitchen at home with the morning light slanting in and still I canât seem to make my feet work.
I can feel his breath, hot and uneven, the tension rolling off him in waves. His grip is rough, almost punishing, like heâs trying to teach me a lesson and punish himself at the same time. His hips gently rut against my ass.
I feel like I have to remind him that what he's doing is insane. That pinning me against his office door is insane considering our relationship to one another.
âJoel, no,â I manage, though my voice is already breaking under the weight of it. "Jack... Tess."Â
His hands hesitate for a fraction of a second, but they donât move away. âYou think I donât know that?â he says, his voice low and ragged. âYou think I donât wake up every damn day telling myself to stay the hell away from you?â
âThen why-â I start, but he cuts me off with a grunt, forcing his bulge against my ass and grinding harder.Â
âBecause I can't stop,â he says. âYou make it fuckin' impossible.â
His hands skim my thighs, slow now, almost gentle before his grip turns hard again, fingers digging in like he wants to leave a mark. âYou think I don't notice how you look at me all fuckin' day? Like you want me to touch you.â
I bite back the instinct to deny it, because we both know itâs pointless. The tensionâs been there for weeks, an undercurrent beneath every fight, every cutting remark when weâre alone.
âThat's what you want,â I whisper even though it sounds false in my own ears.
"Just me?"
"Yes."
âThe hell it is,â he mutters, and his voice is frayed at the edges now, his self-control hanging by threads.
His hand slides up the back of my neck, gripping my hair by the roots and pulling me back into him.Â
"You're tellin' me I'm the only one who feels this-this pull? This need?"Â
âJoelâŠâ My voice is soft but laced with something I canât quite hide, the cool wood against my chest.Â
âYouâre tellinâ me you ainât wet right now?â
My palms are splayed flat over the spread of paperwork, the edges of the desk biting into my hips, but I barely feel it. All I feel is him behind me; solid, immovable, a wall of fury and restraint thatâs cracking.Â
His hand is at the back of my neck, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough that I know I couldnât move even if I wanted to. And I donât want to. Thatâs the worst of it. The part that makes bile rise in my throat even as desire pulses low in my belly.
âYou're a tease,â Joel mutters, his voice rough, frayed like itâs been dragged across gravel. I feel the heft of his chest on my back. His breath brushes the side of my head, hot and furious. "You act like you're not giving me fuck-me eyes all day and then crawlin' into bed with my son every night."
My eyes squeeze shut, my cheek pressed to the hard wood.
âIs that why you're so angry? Do you wish I was crawling into bed with you, Joel?â
 The words scrape out of me, a whisper I donât mean. A dare I do. He goes still behind me. I can feel his body vibrating with restraint, every muscle pulled taut. "No."Â
"But you want me."
âEnough.â His voice drops lower, ragged, like itâs tearing at him from the inside. My cheek is squashed against the desk, my view stuck on the desk across the room.
"Because I want you, Joel," I confess as my face burns. "That first night, the first time I saw you. I wanted you so fucking bad.â
âDonât-â His hand fists harder in my hair, pulling my head back so Iâm forced to look sideways over my shoulder. "Don't say that."
His hips press into me, leaving no room for denial. The evidence of what he wants is right there, solid and undeniable, and I suck in a sharp breath. He groans low, guttural, and shoves me harder into the desk. Â Like he wants to fuck me right through it.Â
His forehead drops briefly, a ragged sound tearing out of him as he continues to circle his clothed erection between my thighs. He cuts himself off, his breath stuttering. âGoddamn it. I'm fucking married."
Something in me twists at the mention of Tess, guilt, shame, and a knife-edge of regret I have no right to feel. But the rest of me is on fire, drowning in the contradiction of it all.
âYou think I donât hate myself too?â I whisper, my nails digging into the desk. âEvery time I look at you? That I donât feel disgusted when I sit there at dinner with you? I feel like I canât breathe. Everything makes me think of you. I canât cum without your face in my head."
That does it. He snarls something I canât catch and his hand is at my waistband, tugging my jeans and underwear down in rough, almost violent, like if he doesnât get inside me now heâll tear himself apart. The zipper scrapes loud in the silence, my pulse racing with it.
âJesus,â he mutters, his voice shredded, he palms over my ass, down between my thighs, rough and claiming, making me gasp.
I feel his large hand fumbling between my thighs, thick digits prodding between my slick lips. I moan wantonly when he brushes my clit.Â
"Already soaked," he says and while his voice is full disgust, there's no hiding the erection that's digging into my back. âJust like I said.â
He sighs, fingers thrusting into me shallowly as I whine. He hits just where I need it. Rubbing my walls, creating that friction which has my cunt sucking them deeper. My breath fogs the surface where my mouth huffs, cheek squashed against the desk. The faint hum of the desktop computer fills the silence between the low, shuddering sounds he makes under his breath.
Joelâs hands are rough and hot; gripping my hips like heâs afraid Iâll turn around, like looking at each other might make it worse.
Itâs not surrender without consequence, the shame is still there, dark and gnawing, twisting tight in my stomach, but itâs tangled with something hotter, something I canât untangle from the rest. It feels like falling, only Iâm not sure which part will hurt more; the landing, or the fact that a part of me wants to keep falling.
He curses viciously, his chest covering my back now, the heat of him suffocating. His free hand pins mine flat to the desk, our fingers spread against each other like an anchor.
âGoddamn you,â he growls in my ear, every word trembling with fury as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of my cunt. âGoddamn you for makinâ me want you when I shouldnât even fuckinâ look at you.â
I want to say something back, something that will make sense of this mess weâre in, but my mouth wonât work. All I can do is breathe, sharp and shallow, as he presses forward, each shift of his body a war between restraint and surrender.
 The smell of him is everywhere, warm skin, faint sweat, that woodsy cologne. It coats my mouth when I suck in a breath, mingling with the metallic tang of adrenaline. There's the sound of a belt buckle, of a zipper.
His belt still hangs loose, clinking softly as he moves, his thighs driving into the back of mine with a pace thatâs nothing like patience. The desk shifts under us, its faint creak swallowed by the rain.
The storm outside roars, wind rattling the windows like even the world knows how wrong this is.
And yet my body yields when his fingers are removed. I arch my back and I look over my shoulder to see his fucked out expression. He sees it in mine too because he gives a growl that I feel down to my toes.Â
His large cock is there at my entrance, his hand leading the head to drench itself in my honeyed arousal. His voice is dragged from the floor, raspy and devastated.
"Tell me we have to stop."
âI can't," I whisper again, my voice shaking. My hips tilt back into him, betraying me, betraying everything.Â
His hands grip my hips, rough, anchoring me as he moves, his breath ragged against my shoulder. The first push of him inside is brutal, not in force but in what it means. My teeth catch on a cry, my eyes squeezing shut against the flood of sensation. He hisses through his teeth, the sound of a man breaking.
âFuck," The word tears out of him. âSo goddamn wrong.â
Every movement is messy, urgent, as if we both know we donât have much time before one of us comes to our senses. My fingers curl against the desk until the pads burn. The sound of his breathing is ragged in my ear, now chest flush to my back. Thereâs no rhythm, no tenderness, just a frantic, furious need that neither of us can temper. Each thrust is a confession, a punishment, a plea for something neither of us deserve.
My cheek presses harder into the desk, my nails scraping wood as his pace builds, the storm inside him spilling over into every movement. His hips are slapping against my ass, thrusting me against the door, caged between the metal and Joel's thick cock breaching me over and over.Â
His hands are brutal on my hips, yanking me back into him so hard my feet leave the ground for a split second before he drives me down again. The impact shudders through me, rattling my teeth. Sweat is rolling down the side of my neck, his chest grazing my shoulder blades with every lunge forward.
âSay it,â he grits out, his voice strangled. I wish I could see his face properly.Â
"Say what?"
âSay you hate me.â
âI donât,â I gasp, my voice breaking. âI should, but I donât.â
He groans, the sound raw and guttural, and his hips slam into me harder.
The desk rattles under the force of him. Every thrust slams me forward, the wood biting into my hips, papers skittering across the surface. His belt clinks with the movement, the leather ends snapping against his thigh. The wet, obscene sound of him driving into me fills the office, sharp and steady under the rain against the glass.
Joelâs breathing is a harsh, uneven grind in my ear; short, punched-out grunts every time his hips hit mine. The muscles in his thighs bunch and release with each deep push, the heat of his body pressed up against my back.
âI hate you,â he rasps, but itâs hollow, false, trembling. âI hate how fuckinâ good you feel. Hate that I want you like this.â His breath stutters, a curse falling from his lips as his body shakes against mine.
The desk creaks like it might give, and still he doesnât slow; hips pistoning into me in a frantic, punishing rhythm, each thrust punctuated by the slap of skin on skin and the low, raw sound he makes when itâs good for him.
It builds like the storm outside, relentless, consuming. His voice is in my ear, curses and broken fragments of my name, his body driving into mine until I canât think, canât breathe, canât do anything but take him.
The orgasm crashes into me, causing me to scream his name, thrusting myself backwards on his cock. "F-fuck! Joel!"Â
His rhythm starts to falter, the hard, steady pumping giving way to rougher, deeper thrusts that grind me into the desk. Heâs louder now, the grunts spilling into curses, voice rough and low in my ear. Every breath drags out of him like it hurts to hold it in, hot against the back of my neck.
"You're so goddam tight. F-fuck, IâmâmâŠ.gonna cum."Â
And then heâs shuddering, clutching my shoulder like heâs drowning, forehead pressed to my spine, the sound that rips from him half-groan, half-prayer.
"Inside," I beg, my body vibrating. "Please!"Â
"No," he grunts as he viciously pulls himself from my cunt and begins stroking himself furiously, the wet slaps frantic.
One hand remains on my shoulder, keeping me pinned to the desk as he strokes himself over and over. But I want to make him fall apart. I want to be a part of it. My breath comes in ragged gasps.
âFinish inside me,â I demand, voice rough, edged with desperation.
âNo.â He sneers, knuckles white on the desk, jaw tight. âStop askinâ,â he growls, teeth clenched, eyes dark with frustration. âYou know we canât do that.â
Every stroke makes his thighs tense, makes his throat work, a low sound slipping out thatâs more animal than man. Heâs fucking glorious and I am in awe, watching him over my shoulder.
âJoel..â
His eyes snap open at my whimper, locking on me, wide and furious with want.Â
âInside,â I beg, ass angling up for him. âPlease.â
His breaths are rough, ragged, each one punched out of him like it hurts to hold back. His shirt is stretched across his chest, and his jaw works like heâs chewing on the urge to let go.Â
âShouldnât.â
Even as he groans that he shuffles forward and presses back up against me, cock hard and teasing at my entrance, dragging just over me without going in. His hands grip my hips like heâs trying to stop himself, jaw tight, every muscle coiled.
âDonât let me do this,â he hisses, voice low, ragged, teeth clenched.
âI want it,â I grind back against him, pressing into the heat, whining. âJoel itâll feel so fucking good. You know how good it feels to fuck me.â
His hips twitch, a shudder running through him, but he holds back, biting out another curse. He lets out a sharp exhale and pushes just a fraction inside, teasing, testing me with the head of his cock.
I moan around it, rocking my hips, desperate. âI need more.â
The noise he makes rips through him, half curse and half desperate groan. Itâs raw and guttural, the sound of a man breaking, and it makes my stomach twist with heat knowing Iâve dragged it out of him.
âLike last time,â I whisper. âFuck me full.â
With a low, furious growl, he slams into me, hands gripping my hips so hard I gasp. Every thrust is jagged, messy, and brutal. His grunts and curses fill the office, raw and guttural, each one punctuated by the slap of skin against skin.
âYouâre fucking relentless,â he rasps, voice thick with rage and need. âManipulative little bitch, making me do thisâŠâ
The pressure of his wide hand between my shoulder blades pins me in place on the desk, forcing me to take him deeper. My body jolts with every slam of his hips, the sound of it sharp, wet, obscene. Â Iâm gasping, whimpering, arching back into him, and it only drives him harder.
âMakinâ me fuck this messy pussy full.â
The smell of sweat and sex thickens in the air, damp clothes clinging, rain still hammering the glass behind us. I can feel the tremor in his thighs, the twitch of his stomach pressed into me as his pace grows wild, desperate.
I can hear the faint catch in his throat when he goes deeper, the guttural curse he spits against the back of my neck.
"Fucking filthy little slut," he groans, even as he keeps stroking himself, tugging so fast the sound of clapping is like thunder.Â
His pace goes savage, sloppy with need, desperate and punishing. He leans over me, pressing me to the desk, voice thick, every word rough and cutting.
âGonna pump you full right here on my desk.â His hand slides from my hip to the front of my thigh, forcing me open wider for him. âBet youâll think about it every time you walk in here.â
I cry out, biting the edge of the wood, knees trembling, begging for more, pushing him to lose whatever control heâs clinging to. And he does, driving into me harder, faster, grunting curses and filthy words, full of rage, lust, and self-loathing. Every slam, every hiss, every rough command is hate, raw and messy.
My eyes begin rolling back in my head. His body is tilted back, watching how his wet cock is filling me. Iâm completely gone, babbling about how good his cock feels, my ass rippling against every slam of his pelvis. Iâm so close again.
His pace stutters, and then turns brutal, like his own words lit a fuse in him. Â I gasp, gripping the edge of the desk as the wood digs into me. âDonât stopâ I moan, meeting him push for push.
âNot âtil Iâm empty inside you,â he promises and then heâs slamming into me so hard the desk creaks, both of us chasing the end. Â His thrusts go ragged, desperate, each slam sloppier than the last, grunts breaking into low, choked curses.
I can feel him twitching against me, the tension coiling tighter with every slam and I cum again, drenching his cock, fluttering around the head. He spreads my cheeks, watching as it drips down the length of his cock, drenching the curls at the base.
âFuck-Iâm gonna-â he groans, voice cracking, gritting his teeth as he loses control. âYouâre⊠fuckinâ⊠I canât⊠God damn itâŠâ He shudders violently, hips pumping wildly, voice jagged, raw.
The first shudder wracks him and he jerks against me, teeth clenched, a strangled growl torn from his chest. The next comes faster, each slam punctuated by a hiss, a curse, a guttural groan as he spills, ragged and messy, heat hot and heavy, pounding into me like punishment. His hands are on my thighs, pulling them apart so he can finish as deeply as possible. My feet arenât even on the ground anymore, heâs just holding and fucking into me.
âGod, you âfuck⊠hate this⊠canât stop⊠fuckâŠfuck itâs so good-â His voice is all broken, a filthy jumble of rage and lust, spitting out every word of contempt he feels for both of us as he rides it out, flooding my cunt with his cum.
His last shudder leaves him pressed hard against my back, chest heaving, jaw tight. For a long moment, thereâs only our breathing, ragged and uneven and the pounding of rain. Itâs like the fog in my brain has lifted and Iâm very aware that Iâm pinned to the desk of my boyfriendâs father. That is cum is leaking down my thighs. The world goes cold.
What did we just do?
The weight of Joel lingers for a beat too long before he pushes back, the sudden loss of heat making me shiver. Slowly, Joel pulls back, leaving me cold, my jeans twisted low around my calves. I stay there, terrified of what comes next
I stay bent forward, palms flat, catching my breath. The wood is damp under my hands, sweat, maybe, or the condensation from my skin, and the air smells thick with us.
Joelâs zipper rasps in the quiet, the clink of his belt buckle too loud in the empty office. The rain has softened to a steadier patter, tapping against the glass like itâs trying to remind us the world is still there. I can hear him breathing behind me, uneven, like heâs still trying to get himself under control.
When I finally turn, tugging my clothes back into place, heâs a step away, grabbing the box of Kleenex from a nearby desk. He hands it to me without speaking.
The washroom light is too bright, clinical, buzzing faintly overhead as I clean myself the best I can. I come to wash my hands and grip the edge of the sink. My reflection stares back at me, skin flushed, lips swollen, hair mussed like Iâve been caught in something I shouldnât have survived. I barely recognize myself.Â
My stomach twists hard, revulsion crawling up my throat. I turn on the tap, splash cold water over my face, but it doesnât help, the girl in the mirror still looks ruined, still looks like someone who bent in front of her boyfriendâs father and begged for his cum. The shame comes in waves, heavier each time, until I can hardly breathe under it.
I exit the bathroom to see Joel braced on the edge of the desk like if he lets go heâll fall. His head is bowed, eyes shadowed, jaw clenched.
âWhat the hell have we done,â he whispers, voice cracked wide open.
My throat is tight, my words gone. The shame of everything has overtaken us both leaving the world feeling tilted and broken. My phone buzzes, breaking the quiet. I check it, feeling unsure. "The Uber is here... Should I -"
âGo.â The word is rough, final, shaking. His fists curl on the desk, knuckles red. âJust go.â
The storm outside swallows me as I exit, the weight of what weâve done pressing heavier than the rain.Â
warnings: this chapter contains smut, age gap, sex work (stripper reader), power imbalances, blackmail, and elements of slut shaming. reader discretion is advised!!!
word count: 12k
âž»
The desert had a way of making a man feel like he was always being watched.
Ted would tell himself it was just the sunâthat unrelenting, pale eye overheadâbut it wasnât. Not lately. Not since Joe Cross had let your name drip off his tongue like poison in the grocery store.
Heâd tried to push you out of his head. Heâd tried to work, to bury himself in mayoral duties, in those endless Zoom calls with the county commission, in the tedious business of explaining to people why the diner couldnât reopen yet. But his thoughts kept bending back toward you, the way heatwaves bend light on the horizon.
You werenât just another girl at The Velvet Horseshoe.
Youâd never been that. Even in that first yearâback before the world tiltedâheâd known there was something sharper under your pretty. Heâd told himself it was just loneliness that drove him to you. Loneliness and the burn of the whiskey heâd been drinking that night. But now, two months into this silent, stripped down version of Eddington, he knew better.
He was in love with you.
And he hated it.
So he watched you.
Not in some movie style, back-alley way. JustâŠfrom his SUV, a couple of car lengths back. The dusty main street was too narrow for real stealth anyway. You walked to the grocery store because you didnât have a car, and every step you took in that thick heat made something ugly twist inside him. A girl like you shouldnât have to walk to get milk.
Your hair stuck to the back of your neck in the sun. You wore the same cutoff shorts you used to wear behind the bar at the Horseshoe when the AC was busted, a thin tank that clung to you like it was afraid of being left behind. And even with half your face covered by a mask, he could see the way men looked at youânot just men, but their wives, too. Everybody knew what you did for a living. Everybody knew where you danced, whose lap you sat in, who you took upstairs.
And Ted hated them for it.
The line outside the grocery store snaked along the sidewalk, six feet between each person. Only so many people were allowed in at onceâone of the new rules Ted himself had signed off on. You stood with your arms folded, head tilted back just enough to let the breeze catch your hair, sunglasses hiding whatever you thought about being stared at by a half-dozen strangers who probably thought they knew you.
He sat there, engine idling, fingers drumming against the steering wheel, watching the sweat bead on your collarbone.
The first time you caught him was an accident.
Youâd just stepped out of the store, paper bag tucked against your hip, when you saw his SUV parked across the street. Not moving. Not leaving. The tint wasnât dark enough to hide him completely.
You tilted your head, lips curving under your mask.
It was the smallest smile, but it landed like a punch to his ribs.
Ted didnât wave. Didnât even flinch. Just waited until youâd started walking again, then pulled away slow, like a shadow that didnât want to be seen leaving.
But after that, it was different.
You started lingering in places you knew he could spot you from his car. Pausing to check your phone on a corner. Pretending to adjust your mask just long enough for your eyes to flick toward that familiar SUV. And sometimesâwhen you were feeling cruelâbending over to tie your shoe even though the laces were fine, just to feel the weight of his gaze on you.
Ted tried to tell himself he was protecting you. That Joe Cross had put something in his head that he couldnât shake. That these streets werenât safe for a girl with your kind of reputation and your kind of beauty, not when half the townâs men were bored and horny and stuck in their houses.
But the truth was simpler.
He missed you.
He missed the way youâd laugh in that low, smoky tone when he tried to talk about politics in bed. The way youâd press your palm against his chest, not to push him away, but to feel the beat of his heart like you were memorizing it. He missed your perfume, your skin, the way youâd say his name like it was something private.
The longer the lockdown went on, the more unbearable it became.
The last time youâd been together had been in that upstairs dressing room, the windows cracked, the ceiling fan dead. He remembered every inch of itâthe way your thighs tightened around him, the quiet gasp you made when his fingers tangled in your hair, the heat of your skin under his mouth.
Heâd left that night with the taste of you still on his tongue and a promise to himself he wouldnât let it happen again.
And now here he was, circling you like some lovesick teenager, a mayor who couldnât even admit to himself that what he felt wasnât just lust.
That day, the day you caught him for real, it was late afternoon. The sun was low but still sharp, cutting long shadows across the pavement. Youâd just turned onto the side street that led toward your house when his SUV rolled up behind you.
You stopped.
He slowed, rolled down the window.
âLose something?â you called, voice carrying easily in the dry air.
Tedâs grip tightened on the wheel. âJust making sure you get home safe.â
You stepped closer, enough that he could see the gleam of sweat along your jaw. âIâve lived here my whole life, Mayor. I can walk home without a babysitter.â
âThatâs not what Joe thinks,â he said, the name coming out like it tasted bad.
Your mouth quirked. âOh, so this is about him. I was wondering.â
Tedâs jaw worked, but he didnât answer.
You leaned your forearms against the open window, close enough for him to smell the faint trace of lotion on your skin. âIf you wanted to see me, you couldâve just knocked.â
He thought of your porch that day. The way your voice had gone sharp when youâd told him to go. The way his hands had ached to stay.
âThis isnât about seeing you,â he said, and even he didnât believe it.
You laughed softly, shaking your head. âSure it isnât.â Then you straightened, adjusted your bag, and started walking again.
Ted didnât follow this time. Just sat there, watching you disappear into the heat shimmer, the taste of your voice still stuck in his throat.
He told himself it was better this way.
But he already knew heâd be back on this street tomorrow.
You didnât see him the next morning. You didnât see him at noon. But somewhere around two p.m., while you were bleaching the kitchen sink and pretending that citrus meant clean, he was sitting in his pueblo revival living room with a computer glow painting his face blue, the adobe walls behind him warm and sunlit like a set from a Western no one had the heart to finish.
The Zoom grid looked like a checkerboard of tired faces and bad lighting: council members half-lit by microwaves, a town attorney framed by a wall of commemorative plates, a school principal frozen mid-blink because her internet had given up. There were agendas, bullet points, new signage mockups. There were words like âcomplianceâ and âunprecedentedâ and âcurve.â Everyone talked at once, and then no one talked at all.
Tedâs camera was on. His mic was muted. His attention was elsewhere.
He kept thinking about your laugh when you leaned into his car window yesterday, the heat of your arm against the door, the flash in your eyes when you said...If you wanted to see me, you couldâve just knocked. A sentence like a flicked match. Heâd felt it burn all night.
Now he sat there, mask on the desk beside his keyboard like a dare, pretending to listen while a county health rep explained occupancy caps with the passion of a man reciting a grocery list.
Ted nodded at the right moments. He clicked to the next slide. He even furrowed his brow in that way that meant leadership to people who needed to be led.
Under the table, his hand had a mind of its own. Fingers flexed, relaxed, traced the seam of his slacks like he was measuring out a decision stitch by stitch.
He should knock.
He shouldnât knock.
He should send a text.
He shouldnât send a text.
He should go to your house, stand on your porch under that lopsided chime, and say what heâd been refusing to name out loud. He should tell you he wasnât sleeping right, that he kept looking for you in the empty places of his day: the dark between agenda items, the quiet after he turned off the nightly briefing, the drunk soft minute before a shower when the mirror fogged and he could imagine he was someone elseâsomeone who didnât need permission to want.
The meeting turned to budget. Somebody coughed. Somebody forgot to unmute and laughed at the wrong thing.Â
âMayor Garcia?â a councilwoman prompted, voice tinny through his computer speakers. âYou said you had updates on the rec center?â
He blinked, refocused with the practiced grace of a man who carried the townâs face in his pocket. âYes,â he said, clearing his throat. âWe keep it closed up to two months. Reassess mid-month, then go from there.â
A chorus of squares nodded. Someone wrote it down. A decision snapped into place like a light turning red.
He spent the next two hours nodding, agreeing, adjusting. He was reasonable. He was calm. He was the kind of man you were supposed to trust.
And all the while, he was building a ladder out of reasons to climb down his own throat and say the thing: Iâm coming over. Please let me in.
By late afternoon, the sun had drifted west, glazing the edges of his living room in honey. He closed the laptop, the room instantly too quiet. In the stillness, the ceiling fan ticked like a clock wearing an old coat. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck, and the fantasy arrived fully formed: your doorway filling with your body, your mask hook-empty on the entryway table, your mouth parting around his name like it belonged to you.
He took a shower he didnât need. He shaved a mustache already neat. He told himself nothing about this was foolish.
On his way out, he collected the cloth maskâplain, white, government-issuedâand slid it into his jacket pocket. He hesitated only once at the mirror. The years looked back at him, lined with what heâd kept and what heâd given away. He didnât look like a reckless man. He looked like a man who made rules.
Outside, the evening leaned blue. The town below his hill was a scatter of lights, a constellation stitched across a wide bowl of dark. Eddington rested in its own bones...shale, memory, rumor. He got in the SUV, the leather hot from the day, and drove toward you.
The roads were almost empty nowâcurfew-adjacent quiet. A pickup rumbled past with a dog in the bed, tongue out into the wind as though the world hadnât learned a new word for fear. The sky was one long band of gradient, ash at the top, apricot at the bottom. He took the familiar turns without thinkingâpast the shuttered storefronts, past the Horseshoeâs dead neon that still managed to look like it was breathing if you squinted, past the corner where youâd once kissed him hard enough to make him forget his own name.
He told himself he was going to check on you. That was all. He would stand on your porch, and he would beâŠdecent. Responsible. He would ask if you needed groceries. He would pretend he hadnât spent a week watching you like a guilty satellite.
As he turned onto your street, he slowedânot from caution but from habit. The arroyo on the far side of your house was a hollowed-out dark, sage ghosts bending in a wind that didnât bother to touch the town.
Your place sat a little apart from its neighbors, as if it knew better. White stucco mottled by heat, a roofline that always looked slightly surprised, the narrow windows you kept open for air when you couldnât stand the noise of your own thoughts.
He cut the headlights and coasted the last few yards, a predator who hated himself for knowing how. Gravel crackled. The engine ticked as it cooled.
And then he heard it.
Music.
Not the thin thread of a radio left on. Not the nostalgic hush of a record spinning in another room. Loud music...bass first, then a snare that skipped like a heart with opinions, then a womanâs voice that sounded like a dare.
Ted stiffened, hand pausing on the ignition. He looked up at your windows.
Movement.
Figures passing through rectangles of light, quick and casual, shadows that werenât yours. The kind of motion that said more than one guest, more than one drink, more than one rule being broken at the same time.
His mind went flat and bright, desert noon. Every line item heâd signed, every directive, every press conference where heâd said the word community with a straight faceâhe saw them all superimposed on your house like a warrant no one had the guts to serve.
You wouldnât. You wouldnât do this. Not you.
He pictured you standing in your kitchen, a beer sweating in your hand, hips rolling to a beat you didnât pretend to ignore. He pictured some manâlong day, wedding ring tan lineâlaughing too close, leaning on your counter like he owned the moment.
He pictured his own name, the one you didnât say in public, getting chewed up by those same mouths that cheered Friday night touchdowns and told their wives that the stripper girl in town didnât mean anything.
He closed his eyes and saw Joe Crossâs face: the ridiculous glasses, the smirk that didnât know it was temporary. He could hear Joeâs voice, too: A lot of sick men around. Not just the virus either. It had sounded like a threat because it was one.
Music surged. Someone hollered. Glass hit a tabletop. Laughter spilled like something sticky.
His jaw flexed. He forced his hand to release the steering wheel and realized heâd been squeezing it so long his palm hurt.
You wouldnât have people over. Not after all his talking; not after the curfew posters; not after the grocery store lines where heâd enforced six feet like a priest guarding a reliquary. You wouldnât do that. Not behind his back. Not knowing how precarious it all was. Not with him standing right here, a stupid man full of careful morals and late confessions.
He sat, trying to let reason crawl back into his body, but jealousy was a rush that didnât leave room for oxygen. Logic tried.
It reminded him that you owed him nothing. It reminded him he wasnât your husband, wasnât even your boyfriend, that you were allowed to know other names, other hands, other voices. It reminded him that he had ended things in that upstairs room with a sentence like a slammed door. It reminded him that the world was burning, and people made little fires to feel less alone.
But another part of himâolder, instinctive, the part that took off his watch when your mouth opened under hisâdidnât care. That part wanted to end the music because it wasnât for him. That part wanted to end the night because it didnât include his hands.
He got out of the SUV.
The evening hit him full in the chest: that baked-earth smell after a day of heat, the metallic tang of distant rain that would never arrive, the prickle of electricity that comes before a bad idea. He slid his mask from his pocket, looped the elastic over his ears with a professionalism that wouldâve made the council proud, and started toward your door.
Your front path was a strip of cracked concrete flanked by tufts of brittle grass youâd stopped pretending to water. The porch light was on, casting a cone of soft gold that turned the moths into punctuation. The chime he rememberedâa tin sun with little bells for raysâshivered against the stucco in the night breeze, a nervous laugh caught in metal.
From inside, a chorus of voices surged and receded. A man whooped, a woman clapped in time with the music. He could hear the song now, clearer, something with a bassline that asked you to sin a little just to see if God was paying attention.
He stopped with one foot on the top step, the wood under his sole announcing him with a reluctant creak. Nothing inside paused. The party didnât even hiccup. Of course it didnât. Who expects their mayor on a Saturday night, masked like decency, standing on a porch he had no business remembering?
He told himself to knock.
He told himself to leave.
He told himself to go home, take off his shirt, pour two fingers of something quiet, and practice the noble art of minding his own damn business.
Instead, he put his hand on the doorknob.
It was an old knobâround, cheap, a little loose in its housing. His fingers wrapped around it and found it warm, as if someone had been there just before him, as if the metal itself had a pulse.
He pressed down.
The latch slid with no resistance.
Unlocked.
He froze for a heartbeat that felt like a small eternity, eyes flicking to the windows, to the silhouetteâyour silhouette?âmoving past the hallway light. He imagined saying your name and you turning, the party dying out of the air like a bubble popping. He imagined flashing a badge he didnât have, a warrant written in worry and jealousy and something that tasted like love but scared him worse.
He slipped his other hand into his jacket pocket, grounding himself on the fabricâs familiar lining. Mask in place. Heart unplaceable. The door eased under his palm, a quiet animal deciding whether to let itself be tamed.
He thought of you finding men where there was money, finding kindness where there was none, finding your way home along streets that never wanted to claim you. He thought of how easily loneliness turned every no into a maybe. He thought of rules, of signatures, of lines painted on floors to tell people where to stand.
He breathed in through his noseâcedar cologne, dust, the faint inexorable sweetness of your lotion diffusing from somewhere just beyond.
He turned the knob the rest of the way.
And then, without knocking, without announcing himself, without giving the night a chance to change its mind, Ted set his shoulder to your doorâand began to step inside.
The music hit him first. Thicker now, louder, vibrating the soles of his boots with every beat. The kind of song that wanted to be danced to in dim lighting, bare legs brushing tile, a bottle balanced in the crook of someone's elbow.
Your living room looked different. Lived in, yes, but tonight it pulsed with bodies and breath and warm light, the air already heady with the cloying scent of beer, perfume, and something unmistakably floral that he knew had to be you. He saw peopleâreal people, not shadows this timeâmoving with slow ease through the space like the night belonged to them.
Tedâs hands curled at his sides. The mask on his face suddenly felt like a joke.
Jessa was the first one he recognized.
She was curled up in your overstuffed armchair, perched like a little cat, one leg tucked beneath her, a beer bottle resting against her thigh, her smile just a little too bright. A man was beside her, lounging on the armrest, close in that way that meant mine for tonight but not tomorrow. Jessa's eyes slid to Ted the moment he entered, and for a beat, her smile faltered.
She didnât say anything.
Didnât gasp. Didnât shout. Didnât wave her arms like the mayor of Eddington had just walked through the unlocked door of your house at nine oâclock at night during a public health emergency.
She just looked at him.
And Ted knewâshe knows.
She knew what heâd meant to you. Maybe still meant to you. She knew about the December nights, the quiet drives, the way his hand always found the small of your back like it was instinct.
Jessa didnât move. Just took a sip of her drink and rested her cheek against the man beside her, gaze lingering on Ted a second too long before drifting lazily away.
He swallowed hard, moved further in.
Another girlâblonde, in cutoff shorts and a lace bralette that left nothing to the imaginationâwas sitting on the edge of your coffee table, knees brushing a manâs jeans as he leaned toward her. She was laughing at something heâd said, her hand tracing invisible patterns in the condensation on her glass. Neither of them noticed Ted at all.
No one else did either.
The house, your house, buzzed like a live wire...low lights, flickering candles, music humming in the drywall, your couch pushed back just slightly like someone had made space for dancing.
But you werenât there. He scanned again, jaw tight. Still no sign of you.
It was almost worseâthis atmosphere of indifference. Heâd imagined confrontation. Something heated. A betrayal he could name. But instead, the reality was colder...you were just living. With other people. Without him.
He turned down the hallway.
The music dimmed as he walked, the low throb of bass softening into the distance, replaced by the quieter symphony of a lived-in house, a vent whispering, a faucet dripping somewhere, the faint rustle of fabric.
He knew which door was yours.
Heâd only been here twice, but both nights had burned themselves into his memory like stars across the inside of his skull.
The first time had been stupidâan accident, or so he told himself. Youâd both had too much to drink. One of those after-hours things when the Horseshoe closed but the girls hadnât wanted to go home just yet.
Youâd invited him back, and he was too raw to say no, too hungry to pretend. You fed him leftover Chinese, curled your legs across his lap, and let him sleep in your bed while you stayed on the couch. But sometime around 3 a.m., heâd wandered out half-asleep, and youâd tugged him beneath the sheets without a word. Youâd said his name like you meant it. Heâd stayed until the morning sun made you both look softer.
The second time was Christmas.
It had snowed that morningâjust a dusting, just enough to pretend the desert could do magic if it wanted. He remembered you opening the door in pajama pants and a mug in your hand, surprised and not surprised at all. Heâd meant to drop off a box of cinnamon rolls from the diner, a half-apology for avoiding your texts for three weeks.
He hadnât meant to stay.
But youâd touched his arm, lightly, and said, I made too much food, and that had been enough. He stayed Christmas Eve. You gave him a giftâleather gloves, worn but real. Heâd laughed because no one had given him anything in years.
He stayed Christmas Day too.
No tree. Just the two of you and the heater clicking and a long, slow morning in bed with the blinds drawn. You fell asleep against his chest, and he didnât move for an hour, afraid to break whatever spell youâd cast.
Now, standing outside your bedroom door, that memory felt centuries away.
He raised a hand, almost knocked. But the door was ajar.
The hinges sighed as it opened.
You were inside, alone.
Curled up sideways on your bed, phone in hand, legs bare and tucked half beneath yourself, a loose T-shirt hanging off one shoulder like youâd just pulled it on without looking. Your room smelled like coconut and fabric softener and some perfume he couldnât name but had once buried his face in the crook of your neck just to breathe.
The overhead light was off. One lamp glowed on your dresser, bathing everything in warm amber. A candle flickered near your windowsill. The hum of music was softer now, muffled through the closed door behind him, and for a moment it was like the rest of the house didnât exist.
You didnât see him right away.
He watched you scrollâeyes half-lidded, thumb moving slow, not really reading anything. There was a kind of peace in your posture, a stillness that made his throat tighten. He shouldâve turned around. He shouldâve given you a minute to be alone. But his feet carried him forward.
The floor creaked.
You jumped.
Your head whipped around, phone falling to the bed with a muted thud. Your eyes went wide, chest rising sharply with the inhale you hadnât meant to take.
âJesus Christ,â you said, voice breathless. âWhat the hellââ
You stopped.
His face. The mask. The fact that he was in your house.
The shock didnât vanish, not entirely. But something shifted. Not fear. Not anger. Just a slow, puzzled pull of your mouth as you sat up straighter. You didnât say his name, but it hung there between you like a thread about to snap.
He stepped inside fully, not bothering to shut the door behind him. He stood a few feet from your bed, still as stone. You looked up at him like you were trying to figure out if this was a memory or a mistake.
And then he spoke.
His voice was low, rough-edged, older than the boyish heat in your bedroom.
âWhat the hell are all these people doing in your house?â
The question hung in the air like smoke.
You blinked at him, still halfway sitting up in bed, still in that loose T-shirt you hadnât expected anyone to see you in. Especially not him. Especially not tonight.
Ted stood like a storm in the doorwayâtall, broad, slightly out of breath like he'd run all the way here, though you knew he hadnât. His eyes, always soft when they landed on you before, were sharper now. Accusing. Hurt.
And under it all, worried.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You hadnât expected him, hadnât planned for this. And of course he would come. Of course he would be here.
Ted Garcia didnât do anything halfway, not even when he pretended he didnât care.
You swung your legs off the bed, bare feet pressing into the soft rug. You straightened slowly, letting the moment stretch, letting the silence give you space to think.
There was so much you could say. So much you wanted to say.
But none of it would sound right. Not with him standing like thatâlike a man betrayed.
You didnât answer his question. Instead, you crossed your arms and leaned your weight onto one hip, deflecting with casualness you didnât feel. âYou didnât knock.â
His jaw ticked. âThe door was open.â
âThat doesnât mean you get to walk into my house like youâreââ
You stopped yourself. The word hovered on the tip of your tongue. Like youâre mine. Like you own this. Like we ever made that kind of promise.
Ted took a single step inside, closing the distance by an inch that felt like a mile. His voice was quieter now, but not gentler. âThereâs a stay at home order. There are regulations. I signed off on them myself.â
âI know,â you said.
âThen what is this?â
You glanced toward the hallway like you could see through the walls. Jessaâs laugh echoed faintly, the bass still thumping like a heartbeat through the floorboards. Your hands flexed at your sides.
He was angryâbut not in the way he got in meetings, or press conferences. This was something messier. Something private.
You let your gaze fall to the floor, let your weight shift, let the words slowly form. But even now, even in front of him, you couldnât say what you really wanted to say.
That this wasnât about money.
Not just about money.
It had started the night before.
Joe Cross.
You hadnât been expecting him. One minute you were peeling an orange in the kitchen, trying to be patient at your pasta boiling, and the next minute he was at your door with that smug little smirk that always looked borrowed from a bad movie.
He said he just wanted to talk.
You didnât believe him.
Joe never just wanted to talk.
He stepped inside without being invited. A courtesy you only noticed in its absence. He looked around your house like he was appraising it, like he could assign value to the throw pillows on your couch or the chipped tile around your kitchen sink. You hated the way he made your skin crawl.
He cut to it fast.
Said heâd been hearing things. Said he knew you had a history with Ted Garcia. That you were the mayorâs favorite. The mayor's girl.
You didnât confirm or deny it.
But that only made him smile more.
Joe offered you a deal.
Information for protection. Heâd keep you and the girls off the radar, out of the system. You wouldnât get rounded up in some last-ditch morality raid. You wouldnât be âaccidentallyâ cited for solicitation when all you were doing was trying to survive.
He said it with a laugh in his voiceâlike it was a game. Like you were the game.
But his eyes were sharp. And mean.
You told him no. Flat. Final.
And he changed. Just like that. Smile gone. Jaw clenched. He stepped closeâtoo closeâand hissed something about prostitution being illegal in New Mexico. About how easy it would be to send a squad car to your door in the middle of the night. About how no one would believe you over him.
It wasnât about helping you. It was about control. About power. About making you his problem instead of Tedâs.
But you werenât going to be anyoneâs.
Not like that.
When he left, your hands were shaking.
You didnât call Ted. Not because you didnât want to. Not because you didnât need to. But because you knew what heâd do. Youâd seen that flash in his eyes before, when Joeâs name came up, when anyone so much as implied you were anything less than sacred.
If you told him what Joe said, heâd go straight to war. Just blood in the dirt and pride on the line.
You couldnât let that happen. Not with the whole town watching. Not when Ted had so much to loseâmore than you. More than anyone.
So you did the only thing you knew how to do.
You pivoted.
You called Jessa. Then one of the twins. Then the other. You said, âLetâs make money,â and they agreed almost immediately.
None of you were dancing. None of you were touching. Just drinking, talking, giving bored, lonely men something to look at.
Was it reckless? Maybe.
Illegal? Gray area.
Desperate? Absolutely.
But it wasnât wrong.
And now here Ted was. Looking at you like youâd betrayed him. Like you were the one breaking the rules.
You took a slow breath, head tilting, eyes narrowing slightly. âIâm not hurting anyone, Ted.â
âThatâs not the point,â he bit back. âThere are rules. I put them in place for a reason.â
âYeah,â you said, voice dry. âAnd you break them every time you think about me.â
That stopped him.
Just for a second.
You saw itâthe flicker of guilt, of truth, of memory.Â
He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue. But nothing came out.
Instead, he looked around. Looked at your walls, your candles, the faint hum of joy echoing through the drywall. This wasnât just a house. It was home. Lived in. Soft. Messy in a way that felt like love.
His voice dropped. Quiet. Careful. âYou shouldâve called me.â
Your chest ached.
You wanted to tell him everything. About Joe. About the threat. About the way youâd sat on your kitchen floor afterward, back against the cabinet, hands trembling, trying to decide whether to cry or call him or run.
But you didnât.
You just stared at him. At the man whoâd driven here in, mask on, breaking his own rules because he cared too much not to. At the man who lived in a beautiful house at the top of the town and still came knocking on your door when he couldnât sleep.
And thenâ
âWhat the hell are all these people doing in your house?â he asked again, softer this time, but still laced with that terrible, beautiful thing that made you ache.
Because you knew what he was really asking.
Who are you letting in that isnât me?
Who else gets to see you like this?
And do I still matter?
You stared back at him, steady, knowing what your silence cost.
But you didnât speak.
Not yet.
Not when the next words might shatter the whole night.
And he just stood there, still in the doorway, waiting for the answer.
You stared at him like you were trying to memorize the shape of himâone hand still braced against the doorframe like he was half-in, half-out of something he hadnât decided to stay in yet. The light behind him carved his shoulders into something mythic. You hated how easily he filled a room without even trying.
His mask was still on, but barely. Hanging off one ear now, like heâd meant to be official and forgot the performance halfway through. He exhaled, long and slow, like the weight of you was something he hadnât known he was carrying until he stepped into your room. Thenâwithout breaking your gazeâhe pulled it the rest of the way off. Tossed it onto your dresser.
He didnât care anymore. Not about protocol. Not about optics. Not about what anyone would say if they knew the mayor of Eddington was standing in the bedroom of the girl the town liked to pretend didnât exist.
And still, you didnât answer him.
You couldnât. Not when your mind was still caught in the grip of last night, still haunted by the voice that had poured poison in your ear like it was a blessing.
The orange had peeled too easily, skin separating in wide strips beneath your fingernails, juice sticky on your palm. You were barefoot, pot bubbling behind you on the stove, the scent of garlic in the air, something good and simple and normalâthatâs what youâd wanted.
And then he knocked.
You didnât expect it. Not him. Not Joe fucking Cross. Youâd opened the door expecting a delivery, or maybe Jessa. You hadnât even put on a bra. He looked you up and down like you were something already paid for.
âWe need to talk,â he said.
No hello. No small town pleasantries. Just his badge clipped to his belt and that look he always had, like the joke had already been told and he was waiting for you to laugh at the punchline.
You hadn't him in, he just pushed aside.
He said heâd heard whispers. That people were noticing things. Your recordâthat thin, flimsy thing that shouldâve buried you years agoâwas too clean now. Charges gone. Infractions vanished. He didnât say Tedâs name, not right away. Just let it hang there between the lines like a fog creeping in from under the door.
âFunny thing,â he said, sauntering around your kitchen like he owned it. âGirl like you⊠You usually donât stay that invisible unless someone wants you that way.â
Youâd crossed your arms. âIf you have something to say, Sheriff, say it.â
He smirked, slow and mean. âI know itâs him. Donât insult either of us by pretending.â
Youâd stayed quiet. Not for him, but for Ted. You werenât stupid. Youâd seen how quickly men like Joe could turn silence into guilt.
He stepped closer. Close enough to smell your skin. âHow does it work, exactly? You fuck him and he deletes your name from the books? Is that how a town whore gets protected these days?â
Your jaw clenched, breath catching in your throat. You didnât move.
âYou know what I think?â he whispered. âI think itâd be real easy to arrest you. Real easy to spin a story. Mayorâs girlâŠMayorâs little secret. You think Eddington wouldnât eat that up? The town already looks at you sideways. Think about what happens when I put handcuffs on you Monday morning.â
You stared him down. âWhy wait till Monday?â
âBecause Iâm offering you a deal.â He smiled, but it didnât reach his eyes. âYou give me something on him, I give you protection. No charges. No noise. I take care of my girls.â
âIâm not one of your girls.â
His smile vanished. âNo. Youâre not. But you could be.â
And that was when you told him to get the fuck out of your house.
He left, eventually. But he made sure to say one last thing at the door.
âThink about it,â he said. âThink about what happens when the town finds out whoâs been keeping you clean.â
And now, here was Ted.
The man who had deleted you from the system. Whoâd walked into your court dates with a pen and a polite smile and made sure nothing stuck. The man whoâd called in favors in quiet corners and made people forget you were ever anything other than someone trying to survive.
You hadnât asked him to. He just did it.
Because he cared.
Because somewhere in that big, empty house at the top of Eddington, heâd decided you were worth protecting.
And he still didnât know.
âAre you gonna answer me?â he asked, voice low now. Less anger. More something else. Something cracked open.
You looked up at him, blinking like youâd just come out of a daze.
He saw it then.
You didnât have to say a word.
He read it on your faceâthe tremble behind your eyes, the way your arms wrapped around your own torso like you were cold even in the desert heat. He saw the way your throat worked when you swallowed, like there was something lodged there you couldnât speak out loud.
âHey,â he said, taking another step toward you, softer now. His hand hovered like he wanted to touch your arm but didnât know if he was still allowed. âWhat happened?â
You shook your head. Too fast.
âNothing.â
âThatâs not true.â
âIâm just tired, Ted.â
His eyes searched yours. You hated that he could still see through you. Hated that you wanted him to.
âItâs not what it looks like,â you murmured. âThe people. The music. Itâs notâŠâ You exhaled. âWeâre not breaking the law.â
âThatâs not what Iâm worried about,â he said.
The silence between you stretched, but it wasnât empty. It was heavy. A bed unmade. A message unsent. A kiss that hadnât happened yet.
You turned away, fingers twitching at your side, suddenly self-conscious in the shirt that hit too high on your thighs, the undone strands of hair falling across your collarbone. But you felt his gaze still, warm on your back.
âWhatever it is,â he said gently, âyou donât have to deal with it alone.â
Donât make me lose you, was what he meant.
And you knew it.
You closed your eyes. Counted to five. Then ten. Then pressed your lips together like the whole truth might leak out if you didnât.
He stepped closer. You felt his presence before you heard his breath. When he touched your wristâjust the edge of his fingers against your skinâit wasnât possessive. It was a question.
âTalk to me,â he said.
But you didnât.
Because if you told him what Joe said, he would go down to the sheriffâs office tonight. Heâd put his hands on Joe, or worse. Heâd make good on every unspoken threat. And it wouldnât just be messy. It would be over. His career. His name. His quiet way of surviving in this town that never really let anyone live clean.
You werenât going to be the thing that took him down.
You couldnât be.
So instead, you looked up at him and lied.
âIâm fine.â
Ted didnât believe you. But he didnât push. He just let his hand settle over yours.
And the worst part was, you almost cried at the softness of it.
Because for all his laws, all his rules, all the ways heâd tried to keep you at armâs lengthâhe always came back to you like you were gravity.
And you never wanted to let him fall.
But this wasnât about want anymore.
It was about danger.
And secrets.
And how long you could keep them buried before they started to rot.
Ted looked at you for a long time. Then his thumb brushed gently across the back of your knuckles.
âIâm not leaving,â he said quietly.
And you believed him.
God help you, you believed him.
And maybe thatâs what cracked you open, just a little. Not his hand on yours, not the way his eyes softened like he knew you werenât telling him everything and wasnât going to force you toâbut the way he said it. The certainty. Like heâd already decided your bed was safer than any office, any press conference, any lonely night spent pacing his living room in that pueblo style house nobody else ever came inside.
So when he let it goâyour silence, the party, the thing you werenât sayingâyou let go too.
Your fingers slipped from his without a word, and you walked the few feet back to your bed like it was the only place gravity would let you go. You didnât even bother to pick up your phone. The screen was dark now, unread texts blinking somewhere beneath the glass, but none of them mattered.
You slipped back under the covers, legs curling instinctively, one hand tucking beneath your cheek. The room still smelled like coconut and orange peel and something faintly sweet from the candle on your sill. It shouldâve felt too intimate with him still standing thereâhim, the mayor, all broad shoulders and heatâbut it didnât.
It felt right.
You looked up at him, chin barely above the edge of the blanket. âYou gonna keep standing there like a weirdo?â
He blinked once, almost caught off guard. Then a small huff of a laugh, quiet and genuine.
âI didnât want to assume.â
You raised an eyebrow. âSince when?â
Ted rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. You watched as he undid the buttons of his jacket, slow and careful like always, sliding it off his shoulders and folding it in half before setting it on the back of your chair. Then he crouched to unlace his boots and once they were off, his pants followedâdeliberate, focused, like this part still made him nervous.
âKick âem off,â you mumbled, cheek pressing deeper into the pillow.
âThought you liked rules,â he says sarcastically.
You were already half smiling as he tugged them off and left them beside the bed.
When he climbed in beside you, he moved like someone used to making himself smallâlike he didnât want to take up too much of your space. You didnât say anything, just shifted an inch so his leg could brush yours. His body was warm and solid and smelled faintly like the soap he always used, cedar and something saltier underneath, like heat trapped in cotton.
He stayed on his side, one hand resting loosely between you, palm up.
You closed your eyes.
He started talking after a few minutes, voice low and slow, like he didnât want to wake you even though you werenât fully asleep.
ââŠand then Collins forgot he was unmuted,â Ted was saying, some story about the townâs emergency response director. âStarted yelling at his wife about the goddamn Wi-Fi. Swore the CIA was siphoning the bandwidth.â
You didnât answer.
Didnât laugh, didnât sigh, didnât roll your eyes the way you usually did when he brought up town council nonsense. Your breath just evened out, lashes fluttering faintly against your cheeks, and that was when he finally noticed.
You were falling asleep.
Right there beside him, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Ted stopped talking mid-sentence. He didnât move. Just looked at you, a little stunned by the quiet trust of it. How easy you made it lookâresting like this, letting him be here, letting him stay.
His voice dropped lower, just above a whisper.
âYou can sleep,â he murmured. âIâm not going anywhere.â
You mumbled something. A sound more than words. But he heard the shape of it.
Stay.
He didnât need to be asked twice.
Out in the living room, the music was still playing. Low now, lazy. The kind of song that filled the cracks in conversations.
But Jessa heard the shift.
It wasnât the music. It wasnât even the fact that you hadnât come out in a while. It was the silence. The kind that comes when somethingâs settled.
Sheâd always had a radar for it.
Jessa leaned against the counter, one arm braced under her ribs, eyes flicking toward the hallway. The twins were laughing with some guy from the tire shop. Another was trying to get the Bluetooth speaker to connect to his phone.
But Tedâs SUV was still outside.
And you hadnât come back.
Jessa narrowed her eyes.
She walked into the middle of the room, took one long look at everyone, and clapped her hands onceâloud. Sharp. Enough to make the speaker sound like a whisper.
âAlright,â she said, with a sweetness that was all venom, âEverybody out.â
There was a beat of silence.
One of the twins groaned. âUgh, what? Why?â
âBecause this isn't your house,â Jessa snapped, turning off the Bluetooth on her phone. The music died. âAnd Iâm not waking her up to clean up after your drunk asses. Letâs go.â
A guy near the fridge raised an eyebrow. âSeriously?â
Jessa turned to him, tilting her head. âDo you see that SUV outside?â
The room shifted. Everyone knew whose car that was.
She smiled like a girl with a secret and a bat behind her back. âYou really wanna be here when he comes back out?â
They didnât.
So they left. One by one, muttering and rolling their eyes, gathering jackets and shoes, mumbling goodbyes and complaints.
The door shut softly behind the last one.
Jessa stood there for a minute, arms crossed, head tilted toward the hallway like she could hear your breathing from across the house.
She smiled. Not the pouty one. Not the performative one. The real one.
âAbout time,â she whispered, and started cleaning up the beer bottles.
Back in your room, Ted had barely moved.
He sat against your headboard now, one hand resting lightly on your thigh over the blanket, the other in his lap, watching your face as your mouth softened in sleep. You looked younger like this. Calmer. Like no one had ever tried to scare you into silence. Like you didnât carry the weight of men like Joe Cross behind your teeth.
He wanted to touch you.
Not in the way he used to when the lights were low and time didnât exist, but in the way that said Iâm here. I see you. Iâll keep you safe.
But he didnât.
He just watched the steady rise and fall of your breath. The way you curled slightly toward him, even in sleep.
And he whispered, so quiet it almost didnât exist...
âIâm not gonna let anything happen to you.â
Outside, the desert night wrapped around the house. The wind lifted the chime on your porch in one soft, long exhale.
And Ted Garcia, mayor of a town too small to contain everything he felt, stayed right where he was.
Right next to you.
The next morning, the light in your room was soft, slow moving. Desert light. It was a late morning, almost noon, and already warm, not sharp yet, just golden and sure of itself, slipping through the slats in the blinds and painting pale stripes across the foot of the bed. It took you a second to register the silence.
Then you blinked awake.
Your mouth tasted like sleep and yesterdayâs wine, and your limbs felt heavy in the best wayâsatisfied, anchored. You didnât even remember falling asleep. The last thing you remembered was Tedâs voice, low and steady, talking about some man on a Zoom call, about Wi-Fi conspiracies and how someone on council thought the pandemic was a hoax created by âcoastal elites.â You hadnât meant to drift off. Youâd justâŠstopped fighting it.
And Ted.
He was still there.
Still asleep beside you, his body turned toward yours, one arm slung lazily over the blanket like he belonged here. His white shirt was rumpled, half bunched at the waist, and his hair was a little flattened on one side.
He looked younger like this. Less carved. Less mayor. The mustache was the only part of him still dignified. Everything else was softness and sleep and something so domestic it made your chest hurt.
You missed this.
God, you missed waking up to him.
You used to trace the curve of his brow with your thumb. Used to watch him sleep like it was something secret, like catching him with his guard down was the closest youâd ever get to seeing his real self. And here he was again, in your bed, like the months hadnât passed, like the world hadnât broken open, like he still came over without thinking and kissed the side of your neck before saying hello.
But you didnât touch him.
Not yet.
You eased out of bed quietly, blanket falling away from your legs, feet finding the cold floor. The hem of your T-shirt swayed against your thighs as you padded into the kitchen, rubbing at one eye with the heel of your hand.
The house was still.
No Jessa. No people. No stale beer smell, no thumping bass in the walls. Just light and air and the hum of the coffee machine kicking on. The silence was almost reverent. You breathed it in like incense.
On the counter, there was a note.
You recognized Jessaâs handwriting instantly â loopy, dramatic, always a little crooked. You picked it up with two fingers like it might say more than you were ready for.
Didnât say it last night, but I saw his boots. Iâm proud of you.
Also, youâre welcome for kicking out the riff raff! -J
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Of course she saw. Of course she knew. Jessa was smartâtoo smart. Always had been. That man had a way of making an impression even when he was standing still.
You set the note aside, exhaled through your nose, and started cracking eggs into a bowl. A splash of cream, a little salt, your wrist moving on autopilot. You moved slow, quiet. The kind of movements that came from muscle memory, not intention.
And that was when you heard it.
His phone.
That god-awful ringtone.
The one you hated. The one you begged him to change a year ago when it went off at the Horseshoe mid-kiss and ruined the mood completely. It was shrill and corporate and sounded like someone shaking loose change in a blender.
You stilled, spatula frozen in the pan.
The sound came from your bedroom, muffled but insistent. Then...a groan. Bed sheets rustling.
He was awake.
You heard him answer, voice low and still sleep-rough, but clearer than you expected. You werenât trying to eavesdrop. But you werenât not trying either.
The words drifted down the hallway, fragments....
ââŠwhat do you mean he filed?â
ââŠyouâre sure it was Joe? Joe Cross?â
ââŠno, I didnât hear anythingâyet.â
You froze.
Filed?
Filed what?
You turned off the stove without thinking. Eggs half-set. Steam still rising from the pan.
Your bare feet moved toward the hallway before your brain caught up.
You didnât go all the way. Just stood where the hallway met the kitchen and bedroom, close enough to hear the edge of his voice.
Ted sighed into the phone. âNo, itâs not surprising. Just...didn't think he had the guts.â A pause. âYeah, thanks for letting me know. Donât tell anyone else yet. Iâll handle it.â
The call ended.
The silence afterward felt heavy.
You stepped back, back into the kitchen like you hadnât been listening at all. You turned toward the coffee pot, busying yourself with pouring, even though your pulse was high and jittery in your neck.
You heard his footsteps a second laterâbarefoot, quiet.
Then he was there, standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His shirt was wrinkled and his expression was unreadable.
He looked at you like he was trying to decide how much to say.
You handed him a mug.
He took it.
Held it for a moment. Then... âJoeâs running.â
You looked up, eyes narrowing. âRunning?â
âFor town mayor.â
You didnât say anything.
Not right away.
You just leaned back against the counter, coffee warm in your hands, the sting of his ringtone still in your ears.
He sighed. Ran a hand over his jaw, then dragged it through his hair like it might help.
âApparently he filed preliminary paperwork last night. Some friend on council tipped me off. Itâs not public yet.â
You were quiet.
Tedâs eyes found yours. âI donât think itâs about politics.â
No. Of course it wasnât.
It was about him.
About you.
About leverage and power and petty revenge.
You thought about the way Joe had stood in your kitchen like he already owned it. Thought about the smug grin, the threats, the insinuations.
Ted didnât know. Not yet.
But you could see it all click into place behind his eyesâthe edge of understanding, the burn of something deeper.
You lowered your mug. âYou think heâs coming for you?â
Ted looked at you for a long time. Then, âI think heâs coming for both of us.â
And suddenly, the quiet morning didnât feel so safe anymore.
The sunlight on the kitchen tile wasnât warm nowâit was clinical, washed out. The kind of light they use in interrogation rooms in TV shows, the kind that showed everything. Every crack. Every secret.
You stared at Ted over the rim of your coffee mug, heart still somewhere up in your throat.
Joeâs running.
Joe's running.
Joe's running.
Of course he was. Joe Cross didnât believe in timing, only pressure. He wasnât running because he cared about Eddington. He was running because he wanted something, and the easiest way to get it was to take everything from the man who already had what he couldnât: respect, power, and you.
Ted set his mug down gently on the counter, fingertips lingering at the rim. You could tell he was trying to think ahead, trying to stay five moves in front of it all. But you also knew him. He didnât like being ambushed. And this felt like one.
You cleared your throat, the question already forming before you could stop it.
âDo you think the town would actually vote for him?â
Ted looked at you. Not like he usually did. Not soft. Not teasing. Not like the man who pressed his mouth to your shoulder at midnight and whispered your name like a prayer. No, this look was different. Tired. Bracing.
âI donât know,â he said. âIâd like to think no. Iâd like to think Iâve done enough. But people are scared right now. And when theyâre scared, they make stupid decisions.â
You nodded slowly, eyes lowering to your coffee.
âHeâs gonna run dirty, isnât he?â
âYeah,â Ted said. âYeah, he is.â
The words settled like dust.
You pushed off the counter, walked toward the window. The blinds were still tilted open, letting in a haze of desert sun and dust. Out there, the world looked the same. The street empty. The cactus along your walkway drooping a little under the weight of heat.
But everything had shifted.
Ted stepped behind you, not close, but enough to feel his presence like heat.
âI was already starting,â he said. âThe campaign. It was slow, but it was moving. Digital mostly. Quiet outreach. Talking to business owners. Volunteers were lining up. We were gonna start printing signs this week.â
You didnât turn around. Just stared out the window, heart beating a little too fast. âAnd now heâs gonna ruin it.â
âHeâs gonna try.â
You inhaled deeply, lips parting. âWhat ifââ your voice caught. âWhat if me being around you makes it worse?â
Tedâs silence was immediate. Sharp.
You turned slowly to face him.
âIâm serious,â you said. âWhat if I make things worse for you? What if they find out and vote for him because of it?â
His brows pulled in, like he didnât understand what you were even asking.
You pushed forward. âCome on, Ted. You know what they think of me. Half the town thinks Iâm trash and the other half just pretends they donât know their husbands are tipping me behind their backs. If word gets out that the mayorâs beenââ You stopped yourself. Your mouth tightened. ââseeing me?â
He flinched, just a little. You hated the way that felt.
âI donât care what they think,â he said, voice low, jaw tight.
âBut they do,â you pressed. âAnd theyâll be the ones voting.â
You crossed your arms, chest aching with something that felt dangerously close to grief.
âI donât want to ruin this for you,â you whispered. âThis whole town would choose Joe if it meant punishing you for something they donât understand. Theyâll think youâre protecting me because Iâm your whore.â You spat the word like it burned.
Tedâs eyes flashed. âDonât.â
You didnât stop. âThey already look at me like Iâm a stain on this townâs reputation. What do you think theyâll do if they find out youâve been in my bed for almost two years? That you spent Christmas here? That Iâve been the one you sneak off to when the world gets too loud?â
His hands curled into fists at his sides, voice rougher now. âI donât sneak.â
âNo?â you challenged. âThen why donât they know?â
That hit. You could see it.
You stepped closer. âJoe wants this. He wants us to fall apart. You think I donât know that? You think I donât see what heâs doing? He knows Iâm the only thing in this town that could make people doubt you. Thatâs why he said the things he said to you. Because if he canât beat you clean, heâll do it by dragging me through the mud until youâre covered in it, too.â
Ted looked like he wanted to yell. Or grab you. Or bolt out the door and find Joe and make him regret even thinking your name.
Instead, he looked down at the floor. Silent.
You stared at him for a long moment, your heart cracking open.
âI think we should stop seeing each other,â you said. âAt least until the electionâs over.â
He looked up sharply. âNo.â
You blinked.
âNo,â he repeated, firmer. âWeâve done that before. Tried to stay away. And look where we always end up.â
âTedââ
âI canât do that again,â he said, stepping closer. âI canât pretend you donât matter. I canât wake up in that house without you. I wonât.â
You swallowed hard. âIf Joe winsââ
âHe wonât.â
âBut if he doesââ
âIâll burn this town down before I let him touch you.â
The words were brutal. Fierce. A promise that scared you, because you knew he meant it.
You took a shaky breath. âHeâs counting on this. On us falling apart. On me being the liability you canât afford.â
Ted shook his head. âYouâre not a liability. Youâre the only thing that keeps me sane.â
You turned away, chest rising too fast, breath catching. âGod, this would be easier if you didnât care.â
âWell,â he said, stepping behind you, voice softer, âunfortunately for both of usâI do.â
You turned around, and his eyes were on you, bare and unguarded. No mayor. No mask.
Just him. Just Ted.
He reached out, finally, fingers brushing your wrist. âIâll figure it out,â he said. âWeâll figure it out.â
You didnât trust the word we. Not in this town. Not in this year.
But for a second, you wanted to.
You wanted to crawl back into bed. Back under the blankets where it was warm and stupid and safe. You wanted to drink your coffee in silence in his arms and pretend like the world wasnât outside waiting to split you apart.
But instead, you just looked up at him and said, âPromise me.â
Ted tilted his head. âPromise you what?â
âThat you wonât let me be the reason you lose.â
He stared at you, something unreadable swimming in his eyes. And then, finallyâ
âI wonât,â he said. âBut I also wonât lose you.â
And you believed him.
God help youâyou believed him. Again.
You were still standing close. Not touching. Not yet.
Ted had one hand on the counter, his knuckles white from gripping it like he was keeping himself grounded, like you were the thing pulling the air out of the room. His chest rose slow and heavy, the sweat at his temple had started to dry, but your eyes kept tracking it, like you could follow the trail down to where he really livedâbehind the posture, the policy, the way he always looked like the only adult in the room.
The silence had teeth.
And then he said, againââI wonât lose you.â
That did it.
You crossed the floor without thinking, barefoot and pissed off at how much you wanted to believe him. The space between you disappeared like it was never there. You grabbed the fabric of his shirt, and he caught your waist in both hands at once, that big, careful grip like he was afraid youâd vanish.
And when you kissed himâ
God.
It was like someone tipped the desert sideways and let the sun fall through you.
His mouth was hot and open against yours, his mustache scratching your lip in a way youâd missed more than you should admit. His hands cupped your face, thumbs stroking along your cheeks like he was memorizing you again, like his whole world had narrowed to the taste of your mouth and the sound you made when he deepened the kiss.
You pulled back only enough to whisper, âYou came here just to leave again?â
âNo,â he said, breath wrecked. âI came here to lose my goddamn mind over you.â
Then he lifted youâeasy, firmâand sat you up on the kitchen counter like it was the only surface in the world built for this exact thing.
Your legs parted around his hips. Your shirt rode up.
His fingers slid under it without asking, palms hot against your bare waist, and you whimpered into his mouth when he touched skin. Real skin. Yours. Just heat and nerves and trust.
âChrist,â he muttered, leaning back to look at you. âYouâre so fucking beautiful.â
You rolled your eyes, breathless, pulling his shirt from where it tucked into his waistband of his underwear.
âDonât do that,â he said. âLet me look.â
âTedââ
âLet me see you.â
Your hands stilled.
He pushed your shirt up, slowly, reverently. Paused when your chest was bare. His eyes dragged across every inch of you, and for once, you didnât feel like a thing to be bought. You felt seen. Like the kind of naked that mattered.
He said your name once, soft.
âSay it again,â you whispered.
âSweetheart,â he murmured, mouth brushing your collarbone. âI donât say it unless I mean it.â
He kissed your neck, your shoulder, your sternum. His hands slid under the back of your thighs and pulled you closer to the edge of the counter, anchoring your body to his like he couldnât stand an inch of distance.
âI think about you all the time,â he murmured into your skin, voice dark with honesty. âWhen Iâm on the phone. When Iâm driving. When Iâm standing at a podium trying to explain this goddamn pandemic. Youâre the only thing I want, and I keep pretending I donât.â
Your hands were in his hair before you realized. âSo stop pretending.â
âIâm trying,â he said, like it hurt.
Then he dropped to his knees.
Right there, in the middle of your kitchen, on the cracked tile you hated, the mayor of Eddington dropped to his knees and kissed the inside of your thigh like it was something sacred.
âCan I taste you?â he asked, voice wrecked and reverent, already hooking his fingers under your shorts.
You nodded, breath caught. âYes.â
He peeled your panties down slow until you were bare against the edge of the counter, legs open, breath ragged. He looked up at you once more, eyes full of fire.
âHold onto the counter.â
You did.
And then his mouth was on you.
God. God.
Ted didnât rush. He didnât tease. He licked you slow, firm, like he was starved for it. Like this was the only thing he wantedâthe taste of you, the sound of your breath, the way your thighs trembled as he pulled you closer with strong, unrelenting hands.
His tongue circled your clit just right, lips soft and hot and perfect. You moaned, not loud, but broken, one hand shooting into his hair.
He groaned against you, the vibration making you cry out.
âThatâs it,â he murmured, breath hot, mouth dragging across you again. âLet me take care of you. Let me feel you fall apart.â
You came with a gasp, back arching, thighs tightening around his shoulders.
But he didnât stop.
He licked you through it, slower now, tender, like he was kissing the aftershocks out of your skin.
âTedâfuckâTed, Iââ
âI know, baby,â he whispered, mouth soft at your thigh. âI know.â
And when he finally stood, face flushed, lips slick, the look in his eyes was enough to undo you all over again.
He kissed you hard thenâfilthy and full of heatâuntil you tugged him by the front of his underwear and whispered, âFloor.â
His brow lifted. âThe kitchen floor?â
âYou gonna make me beg?â you breathed.
He groaned, deep in his chest, and lowered you to the tileâslowly, carefully, like he was lowering something precious. He laid you down gentle, spread his palm over your ribs, kissed your shoulder, your breast, your mouth.
And when he entered youâbare, thick, slowâyou wrapped your legs around his hips and let him make you feel like you were the only thing in the world worth breaking rules for.
Because in this moment, you were.
The kitchen floor is cool against your back. The tile kisses your skin in small, sudden shocksâsharp where your shoulder blades press down, softer near your hips.
But none of it matters, not really. Not with Ted above you, inside you, moving with a patience that makes your throat tighten.
Heâs slow.
Deliberate.
He presses into you like the moment might shatter if he moves too fast. Every inch of him feels too much and not enough at once. Your hands are in his hair again, tugging, your breath catching every time his hips roll just right.
And heâs whispering to you.
Not dirty, not exactlyâthough thereâs heat in every wordâbut sweet. Worshipful. Like youâre something heâs dreamed about for years and only just now got to touch.
âYou feel so good,â he breathes into your neck. âSo tight around me. So fucking warm. I could stay here forever.â
You moan, eyes fluttering shut, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist. His shirt is still onâforgotten to be thrown offâbut your palms slide under the fabric and against the sweat on his chest. You feel his heart racing under your fingers.
Heâs careful with you.
Even now, even buried deep inside you, heâs paying attention. He watches your face. He kisses your temple. He rocks into you slow and deep, like heâs writing poetry with his hips.
âI missed you,â he whispers, like a secret he couldnât keep. âGod, I missed you so much I couldnât think straight. Couldnât breathe.â
Your hands find his face, thumbs brushing along his cheeks, and for the first time in weeks, months, you feel calm. You feel held.
âTedâŠâ you whisper, barely able to speak around the swell in your chest.
âI know, baby,â he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours. âI know.â
You kiss himâmessy, deepâand he groans low into your mouth, the sound curling in your belly like fire. His thrusts get a little rougher, a little needier, and it makes you gasp, your nails biting into his back. But he slows again, pulls back just enough to look down at you like he wants to remember your face like this.
âIâm not gonna last,â he pants, voice shaking. âYou feel too fucking good.â
You nod, breathless. âItâs okay. I want you to come. Please, TedâŠâ
That does it.
He groans, deep and broken, thrusting into you one last time before he buries his face in your neck and lets go. His whole body shudders, heat spilling inside you, his arms locking around you like heâs scared of falling apart.
You hold him through it.
His weight, his breath, the trembling that takes a few seconds to quiet. You feel him soften inside you, feel the way he nuzzles into your skin like itâs home, the tip of his nose pressed just below your jaw.
Neither of you speak for a long moment.
The world feels far awayâthe town, the politics, the rules, the risk. Here, on your kitchen floor, itâs just him and you and the slow tick of the wall clock somewhere above the fridge. You think about the version of yourself who wouldâve laughed at this two years agoâMayor Garcia, between your legs, whispering I missed you like it was the truest thing heâd ever said.
Youâre still tangled together when he finally lifts his head and looks at you.
Thereâs a soft, almost sheepish smile on his face.
âYour floorâs hard as hell,â he mutters.
You snort. âYouâre not supposed to complain after sex, Ted.â
âIâm not complaining,â he says. âIâd do it again. JustâŠmaybe next time we put a blanket down first.â
You smile up at him. Let your fingertips trace the line of his jaw, the faint sweat along his temple, the crease between his brows youâve always secretly liked.
âYou mean thereâs gonna be a next time?â
His smile fadesânot because itâs gone, but because itâs getting serious again. His eyes soften. His fingers brush your hair away from your face.
âThereâs always gonna be a next time,â he says quietly.
And you believe him.
Not because youâre naive. Not because he says it like a promise.
You believe him because of how he looks at you.
Because of the way he touches you. Because of the way he says your name like itâs something worth repeating. Because even when the town doesnât see you, he does.
Outside, the sunâs setting behind the desert ridge, throwing long amber lines across the stucco and kitchen window. The light hits the sweat on your skin and makes you glow. Ted presses a kiss to your shoulder, then your chest, then your mouthâslow and lingering, like a man who isnât in a hurry to leave.
And when he pulls you into his arms, half-dressed and laughing on the tile floor, he says, âI donât care what anyone does. Iâm not letting you go.â
You rest your head against his chest, feel the steady beat of his heart.
âGood,â you whisper. âBecause Iâm done letting you walk away.â
â«âïœĄâȘ PAIR: Harry Castillo x Younger! Original Female Character
â«âïœĄâȘ WC: 6.8k
â«âïœĄâȘ CHAPTER TAGS: Yearning, Slow burn, Pining, Soulmates, Domestic Harry Castillo, Billionaire Harry, Harry learning how to fall in love the human way, Emotional vulnerability, family drama, catherine's brother is mean
â«âïœĄâȘ CHAPTER SUMMARY: Harry in the hospital post accident.
Harry Castillo had always suspected that luck, like most things, had a shelf life. Sooner or later, the curve would catch up. He just didnât expect his luck to run out tonight.
Catherine had been quiet since the run-in with Lucy. He noticed it. Sheâd been asking questions. Not confrontationalâjust quiet questions, things that didnât sound like insecurity unless you were listening closely. And Harry always listened closely to her.
He wasnât keen on talking about Lucy. Especially not to his Catherine. He didnât want her picturing Lucy, comparing herself. It felt insulting. Catherine was miles aheadâbrighter, warmer, more alive. But when sheâd said, âSheâs pretty,â there was a hesitation, the kind of tone that made him pause. That made him think maybe she did compare. He laughed at her words because Catherine was the most perfect woman to ever walk the earth.
He wanted to fix it the only way he knew howâby giving. He had been looking through the auction paper earlier. He wanted to buy her something beautiful and rare. A violin from the early 19th century, handcrafted in France. It wasnât even a celloâshe liked cellos moreâbut he didnât think that far. She could play any instrument anyway. It was instinct. A desperate fix disguised as generosity. Or maybe of habit.
He also thought that maybe it was Lucy, still echoing in the back of his mind. He had spent extravagantly on women beforeâgold, diamonds, designer things wrapped in tissue. And with Catherine, it had always been simpler. That had been fine at first.
But he had to admitâhe wanted this one. He wanted to spoil Catherine, and he wanted Lucy to watch. He fought for it harder than he should have. Now that he thought about it, he wasnât sure why. Catherine had already said she didnât want it. And it wasnât romantic. It wasnât smart.Â
Some hedge fund idiot dropped out halfway. The last bidder was a politicianâs son, the type who didnât play but liked collecting prestige. The price doubled, then tripled. It became ridiculous.
And still, he kept bidding.
That was his flawâhis oldest one. The quiet compulsion to prove himself with wealth. Not to impress Catherine. But maybe to feel worthy of her.
It ended up going to the spoiled kid. Which was bullshit, in Harryâs opinion. The boy shouted the last price and the auction ended just like that. âSold,â said the man, without giving him a chance to make an actual offer. But the anger didnât last long. The applause was polite. The moment ended.
The violin was wheeled away, and with it, the last trace of the night going right. He looked at the other art pieces and instruments. None as great as the violin.
He was already in a bad mood as it wasâirritated, half-drunk, embarrassed by the auction. His instincts were off tonight, and that unsettled him more than anything. He told himself heâd fix it. That heâd make it up to her. Heâd take her home, apologize for being an idiot, and maybe theyâd laugh about it tomorrow.
But she wasnât in the hall.
He scanned the room once. Then again. No Catherine. No familiar gold of her dress, no curled hair, no soft, tired smile waiting near the edges. The auction crowd had thinned, guests filtering out into the sharp Manhattan night. Waiters cleared silver trays. Music played at a polite, meaningless volume. He tried not to overreact. Catherine often wandered. She liked walking around and talking to strangers, especially in rooms where thereâs artists. He asked a server if theyâd seen her. No luck. He walked the full perimeter. Checked the bar. The hallway. The bathroom lounge. The back terrace. Still no sign of her.
His irritation started to bleed into something worse. He pulled out his phone, texted her. No response. Called. No answer.
Then he thought of the car. Of course. She was probably in the backseat, curled up and half-asleep. Sheâd had wine, and she was always tired after long nights. That would be just like herâto slip away quietly. To not want to bother him while he was busy, something she thought was important. It was like that usually.
He made his way out. The night was sharp, wind slicing through his coat as soon as the door opened. He was halfway down the steps, heart beginning to race in quiet, contained increments, when the phone rang.
Unknown number.
He picked up without thinking.
âHello?â
âIs this Mr. Castillo?â
âYes.â
âIâm one of the EMTs. We just responded to a pedestrian accident near 55th. The woman involved⊠sheâs being taken to the hospital right now. We found a phone. You were the last call and emergency contact.â
Harry didnât say anything. The words struck one by one, and he caught each of them like slow punches to the ribs.
His feet slowed. His breath did too.
Across the street, Mr. Williams turned, walking toward him in a hurry, as if heâd been looking for himâhis expression uncharacteristically pale. The man never flinched. Not once in all the years Harry had known him. But now his jaw was tight, his hands tense. Mr Williams looked worried.
âWhat?â Harry said finally. âWhat hospital?â
The voice gave him the name. He barely heard it.
Everything around him dulled. The city, the lights, the echo of late music from inside. All of it muffled. Distant. Like his world had dropped underwater without warning.
âč
Harry was rarely unprepared for anything.
He had a vault in his penthouse for emergenciesâenough cash to last a blackout, a fire, a minor apocalypse. A security team on call. Two lawyers on retainer. His driver had backup fuel in the trunk. His building had triple-redundancy generators. He kept spare cash in multiple currencies and had a private banker on standby. His suits were tailored to exact millimeters and his elevator never malfunctioned because he paid for its quarterly maintenance himself.
But preparation didnât mean a damn thing when someone called you to say Catherine had been hit by a car and was being wheeled into trauma.
Life didnât care about good planning.
He arrived at the hospital before he could remember how. Mr. Williams had driven like something was chasing them. He told him she went out for a walk, and how he started getting worried when she didnât come back. Williams had looked for him, even drove around the block, quietly hoping she went back inside. Harry didnât know how to react to that story. He was too preoccupied with his mind, thinking what mightâve happened in the short time she was out of his sight. At one point Harry had shouted at a red light and hit the dashboard with the heel of his palm. Now his throat felt raw and his limbs hummed with a dangerous static. He walked straight in and demanded answers like they owed him blood.
He described Catherine to the desk nurse, barely managing to stay calm. âShe was brought in. Car accident. I need to know if sheâs hereâwhat her condition isâif sheâsââ He couldnât say the last part.
The nurse told him to wait, told him someone would update him, told him she was being evaluated. That she was in surgery. That someone would come. That was all they ever said.
He turned away and paced the entire length of the waiting corridor, checked his phone, unlocked it and relocked it, again and again. Called Emma. Told her sorry for calling on her day off. That he needed her to do something. Check with the police what happened. Send someone to find out who called the ambulance. He needed information. He needed to do something, otherwise he would claw the floor open.
A nurse returned briefly, took down her name and his. He filled out a few forms as the nurse asked for any known medical conditions. Harry could only shake his head. âSheâs healthy,â he said, hoping it mattered. âSheâs twenty-eight. She eats well. She doesnât smoke.â
The nurse nodded. âWeâll let the trauma team know. Sheâs stable enough to go into surgery. Internal bleeding from the abdomen. Possible liver laceration. Weâll know more in a few hours.â
He sat down, stood back up. Paced again. His coat was still on. He hadnât taken it off since the event. His tie was still knotted, his shoes loud against the floor. The cold from outside had long since faded, replaced by a quiet thrum of fear in his blood.
There was a boy nearby. Teenaged, at most. Hoodie splattered with red, hands shaking. One of the trauma nurses had spoken to him earlier. Harry turned to look. The blood on the boyâs chest wasnât his. It was too much. The boy looked up and caught Harryâs eyes, then lowered his head again.
Harry walked over. Asked him quietly if heâd seen it.
âYeah,â the boy said. âI was near. On the sidewalk. Sheâshe was picking something up. Some litter, I think. A drink cup. She bent down and then the car came.â
âWhat car?â
âSome guy ran a red. Hit another car, that one spun then hit her and me. But I didnât really get it bad.â
âWhat happened to the driver that got hit? Do you know their name?â
âI donât know. She died on the spot,â he said. âPolice said the guy who started it was high. On something. He didnât even slow down. Just⊠full speed. An officer gave me his number, here you can have it. â
Harry took the piece of paper the boy gave him, his eyes fell to the blood on the boyâs hoodie again. âShe didnât move much after,â the boy added quietly. âI think she hit her head. She was breathing, though. Barely.â
Harry didnât thank him. He just nodded and walked away before he lost it.
He pressed both palms to the cold wall outside the waiting room and tried to breathe. It wasnât working. He couldnât cry here. He wouldnât. He couldnât.
Harry was born into privilegeâeverything he needed, he had. He worked hard, yes, but privilege dulled the edges of fear. It protected him from worst-case scenarios, from the chaos of true uncertainty. His father was old when he died, so it wasnât much of a surprise. It was expected. Now, sitting outside a trauma ward with his tie still knotted and his hands shaking, he felt something he rarely had to face: helplessness. Cold, gnawing, unfamiliar. Like standing in the middle of a crisis with no exit, no checkbook, no strategy to outthink the grief pressing down on his chest.
He called Emma again. Asked her if she found anything. Told her to contact Catherineâs sister. Tell them what happened. Get them on the next flight if they werenât already on it. Emma asked if she should come. He said tomorrow after she rests. He needed someone outside. Someone who could do what he couldnât from here.
He sat. Waited. Got up again. Found the coffee machine. Didnât drink it. Forgot where he placed it. Time stopped meaning anything.
Around dawn, Peter arrived. He looked disheveledâhis coat thrown over his shirt like he hadnât buttoned it right, hair still pressed from sleep. He said he heard from Emma, and held up a paper bag with coffee and something wrapped in foil. They didnât say much. Harry hadnât eaten in hours but forced himself to chew through a half-soggy sandwich Peter handed him. He accepted the drink, nodded in thanks, and they sat there, silent. The hallway buzzed faintly with movementânurses rolling carts, someone coughing behind the next curtain.
Peter tried to distract him with updates about work, said something about Charlotte texting her prayers. But it was hard to listen.
Somewhere between the chewing, the silence, and the background noise of shoes squeaking and monitors beeping, he saw the teenager from the crash. The boy was walking out now, wrapped in a spare coat, flanked by friends. Harry caught a flash of red on the hem of his jeansâCatherineâs blood, dried and staining the fabric like rust. The nausea hit him fast. He doubled over, nearly dropping the drink, breath catching in his throat. He didnât throw up. He cried instead. Hunched forward, shoulders shaking with quiet, stifled sobs he would never allow in daylight. Peter said nothing, just placed a hand on his back and pulled him in like they were kids again. Harry let him.
About an hour later, a nurse came up to themâcalm, like the worst had passed. Surgery would be over soon, she said. They were going to monitor her in the ICU for a while, and someone should get clothes, toiletries, anything thatâs necessary for a hospital stay. Peter stood immediately, already pulling out his phone. âIâll take care of it,â he said. âCharlotte and Iâll be here first thing in the morning.â He placed a hand on Harryâs shoulder before he left. âSheâll be fine, Harry. Text me if anything changes.â
Eventually, a trauma surgeon came out, his scrubs stained faintly pink.
âSheâs in recovery,â the doctor said. âWe stopped the bleeding. It was a laceration to the right lobe of the liver. Clean but deep. We sutured it internally, closed the abdomen. Her vitals are stable.â
Harry nodded once.
âShe has broken ribs. Also a fracture on her hips. Thatâll need time. And a TBI. She hit her head. The CT showed no swelling in the brain, but weâre keeping her unconscious for now. Light sedation.â
âSheâs in a coma?â Harry asked.
The doctor hesitated. âNot exactly. Weâre giving her time to rest. Medically induced, precautionary. Either way, sheâs not in pain. Weâll monitor for signs of response in the next twenty-four hours.â
âAnd after that?â
âIf sheâs well, sheâll wake up,â the doctor said, âeventually. Then itâs recovery. Rehab. Physical therapy. Sheâs lucky. Sheâll survive.â
After fully understanding the extent of her injuriesâafter the surgeon explained every bone, every stitch, every hour of surgery and sedationâHarry sat alone with the hospital phone in his hand for nearly fifteen minutes. He stared at the screen, her motherâs number already pulled up from the contact list where it had sat unused for months. He had saved it back then, but never thought heâd need to call for something like this.
Emma had already contacted Jane hours before, enough to soften the first wave of panic.When he called, the family was already gathered at their home. All except Chester, who lived out of state. They were waiting for updates, clinging to each other, trying to piece together the bits theyâd been given. Harryâs voice carried the rest.
He told them what happened. The accident, the emergency surgery, the fractures, the blood loss, the sedation plan. He relayed every word the doctors gave him like scripture. Jane kept asking questions, her father too, and their voices overlapped in urgency. But it was her mother who cut through the noiseâstern and frightened, her voice higher than heâd ever heard Catherine speak.
He didnât try to calm them. He didnât pretend to have control. The truth weighed too heavily on him. He tried to speak steadily, to reassure, but his voice betrayed him: breathless, raw, splintered around the edges. It was a devastation that matched theirsâunspoken, but shared. But he told them the one thing heâd been telling himself: That everything was being handled. That Catherine wasnât alone, not even for a second.
âIâll take care of her,â he said quietly, when they had nothing left to ask. âIâll take care of everything.â
âč
The first time Harry walked into her hospital room, he stopped in the doorway. His hand still gripped the doorframe like he wasnât sure if the world inside was one he could survive.
Catherine was there, in the center of the whitewashed room, wrapped in pale sheets and wired up like something out of a war novel. She was barely visible under the oxygen tubes and IV lines, her usually animated face emptied of color, her lips dry, a small bruise shadowing her temple. Her ribs were bandagedâhe knew because they had to cut her dress off. He had it saved in a bag somewhere, though he wasnât sure why. A piece of golden silk, ruined and bloodied. He stared at it once, then couldnât bear to open it again.
The whirring machines beeped steadily, with a precision that made him sick. He had lived his whole life chasing control, certainty, outcomes. But now, he wouldâve given anything to hear her cough or shift or say his name. Anything but this stillness. He could barely recognize her in it. Catherine, his Catherine, who filled every space she occupied. Who couldnât even walk past a musician without giving money or an offer to record. Now silent, as if the city had stopped humming in her absence.
He moved slowly, as if too much weight on the ground might disturb her. He pulled the chair beside her, not even daring to sit yet. His eyes swept the blanket, the wiresâthere was no clear place to touch her. Her hands, maybe. Her hands werenât broken. He took one gently in both of his, lips pressed against her knuckles, and whispered the only thing that made it past his throat.
âIâm sorry,â he said. Over and over again. The apology formed a rhythm. âIâm sorry. Iâm sorry.â His voice broke, but he didnât let go.
He didnât remember crying, only that he looked down and found her hand wet, and only then noticed the tears falling freely down his face. He tried to breathe through them. This was not a time for falling apart. But watching her like this, pale and impossibly still, broke something in him. He had never known a love like this. Never felt so powerless. Never hated himself more.
He sat there for hours, holding her hand. At one point, he rested his forehead against her arm, wishing she could feel it, could know he was there. He told her about everything she missed. How it was still freezing outside. How Mr. Williams felt guilty to the point Harry had to calm him down and tell him to go home. That he had her favorite album queued up on his phone, just in case she woke up. He wanted to say more but choked on the words. His body, trained for boardrooms and negotiation rooms, had no vocabulary for this kind of pain.
In the hours that followed, people arrived. First Peter and Charlotte, with clothes and food. Then word got aroundâ he didnât know howâ and some of her friends arrived. First came Sam. She stayed for a few hours then helped Harry by going on errands, like going to Catherineâs apartment and picking up essentials. Then the people from her orchestra, a few colleagues he vaguely recognized from photos on her studio wall. Then more. The nurses joked that it looked like a parade. Harry didnât laugh. He couldnât feel anything but remorse.
Emma came in the afternoon with a paper bag full of magazines and takeout. She arrived just as Catherineâs manager was leaving, and they had an impromptu meeting by the nurseâs desk while Harry waited in the room. He asked Emma to take charge and help with the studio. The contracts. Whatever she could handle.
Sam stayed longer than anyone aside from Harry, letting him rest while she watched her like a hawk.
But her condition didnât improve like he hoped. Her doctors explained something hadnât gone down as quickly as they liked. One of her ribs, fractured clean through, was causing shallow breathingâshe winced once during a checkup, and they immediately adjusted her medication. Her body needed rest, they said. Sheâd been unconscious for a while.
Brandon Dahl showed up too, thankfully when everyone else left. No warning, just a knock at the nursesâ station and a long, awkward wait by the glass. He had driven hours, he saidâcanceled a show, rerouted the tour van, told his manager not to reschedule. He looked wrecked. Pale, clothes wrinkled from whatever motel heâd slept in. Hair uncombed, fingernails bitten down. Harry didnât want to see him. He had no intention of making space for anyone elseâs grief, especially not Catherineâs ex. But there was something in Brandonâs voice that made him pause. He was pleading, and misery recognized its own shape.
So Harry let him in, but he made a point that it was only for ten minutes. Brandon didnât look particularly happy at that.
He didnât speak. He stood in the corner while Brandon crossed the room, slower than he probably meant to. When he saw her, he blinked like he couldnât believe it. Couldnât accept it. Catherine was still under sedation. Her cheekbones were sharper now, her skin colored slightly from the bruises. She looked smaller. Brandon crumbled into the chair like the wind had been knocked out of him.
He didnât cry. Not exactly. But his body deflated. Shoulders hunched, face slack. He stared at her like he was trying to memorize what hurt. Harry tried not to listen. Frankly, he hated Brandonâs voice and if it were up to him, he would never see the man again. But Harry also recognized the hurt, the pain, and the regret. The man said I love you a hundred times over, which should anger Harry, but it didnât. Harry was too preoccupied with his own sadness.
âSheâs my muse,â Brandon said to him eventually, voice rough from hours on the road and too much silence. He looked at Harry with hatred, like it wasnât fair, as if he should be the one hit by the car. He didnât disagree. âAnd I love her. So much. So much. We shouldâve been together. You know she breaks it off for something so smallââ
âIt wasnât small for her. You know that,â Harry said, still not looking at him.
Brandon swallowed. âIâm still in love with her,â he said. His tone bitter.
âThat didnât matter. She was hurt.â
The room fell still again. Machines hummed. The smell of antiseptic mixed with the faint smell of Catherineâs hand lotion, which Harry applied in the morning, just in case she could smell it too.
âYou speak exactly like her,â Brandon muttered. âIt disgusts me.â
That almost made Harry smile. Almost.
Brandon leaned back, his knee jittering. âShe always expected too much. From everything. From me. I was in my twenties. What did I know? She wanted all of it. Not just attention. Not just loyalty. Like she had this image in her head and if you didnât fit it, you werenât the real deal.â
âShe never expected too much,â Harry said.
Brandon let out a dry exhale, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. âYou think youâre better than me?â
âNo.â Harryâs voice was even. âI think she deserved better than both of us.â
That hung in the air for a moment. Brandon stared at her again, his jaw clenched, eyes unreadable.
âYou should leave,â said Harry. âHer family might arrive soon.â
Then he stood.
âIâll come back another day,â he said.
âDonât,â Harry replied.
There was no malice in his tone. No anger.
Brandon hesitated, waiting for something, but Harry gave him nothing.
That night, when her hand twitched and her eyelid moved the faintest fraction, Harry jolted upright with such force he nearly tipped the chair. His heart surgedâbrief, desperate hopeâonly to be met with stillness again. He leaned closer, checking the monitors, her pulse, her breathing. Nothing had changed, not meaningfully. But he stayed that way for a while, forehead almost touching hers. Her parents were due in the morning, maybe even sooner. He hadnât told them he was sleeping beside her every night, or that he hadnât been home in two days. Part of him wished the world could freeze a little longer, just long enough for her to wake with only him there.
In the quiet, he started talking to herâlow and one-sided, like he was confessing something rather than expecting a response. He told her his favorite memory, the first time they met. That rainy day in Cold Spring when she looked too young to be walking alone, her hair slicked to her cheeks, no umbrella, just a cello case on her back, a green oversized coat, and a smile like sheâd been waiting for him. She had listened to himâreally listenedânot the way people do when theyâre looking for something to gain, but like she was interested in the shape of his thoughts. She had given him her coat, and years later, he still kept it in his closet, buried next to his favorite jackets. Sometimes he wore it when he was cold, or when he was lonely. It had stopped smelling like her, but the sleeves still felt familiar. That coat was his proof that sheâd been real once. His Catherine. And when he saw her again, on Emmaâs laptop of all places, it had been like watching a ghost walk into focus. She had changed, sureâolder, sharper, far more composedâbut she still looked like the girl who was tattooed in his memory.
He told her about their third date. How ridiculous the night had beenâovercrowded, too bright, too loud. But she had insisted on seeing the giant piano at the toy store, so they went, and she stepped on the keys barefoot in her black dress while a security guard half-laughed, half-scolded her. Theyâd eaten overpriced pretzels, wandered into one of those twenty-four-hour diners at midnight, and she made him try her milkshake. He remembered thinking she was too young for him. Then thinking he didnât care. Because sheâd told him she liked him and had laughed with her whole body and curled into him like she belonged there. That was the night he realized he didnât just like her. He needed her in his life, whether or not it made sense on paper. He hadnât told her that, of course. He was still pretending to be composed.
Then came the night of the small party in the West Village, someoneâs loft, jazz playing from a record player, champagne in mismatched glasses. He hadnât wanted to go, but she convinced him. They ended up slow dancing in the middle of the room, surrounded by strangers. She had worn that long velvet dress, hair swept back. Her eyes were shiningâno makeup, just wine and excitement. He remembered touching the small of her back and thinking how terrifying it was to feel that much for someone. Not passion, not lustâalthough he felt all of those tooâ but something heavier, quieter, more rooted. He hadnât kissed her that night, not until they were home, but he knew then.
He told her all of that. Everything. His voice low, the air in the room too still. He told her about the night they cooked pasta from scratch in his penthouseâhow she made a mess of the kitchen, flour everywhere, and how he didnât care. She had worn his shirt that night, her bangs tucked behind her ear, her bare feet tapping on the floor as she tried to remember a song. He had never been that soft with anyone, never felt that domestic. She had rinsed her hands and kissed him behind the ear and said nothing. Just pressed her face to his neck like it was a known place. He held her now like he did then. Tenderly. Carefully. As if she could break again if he moved too fast. His thumb brushed over the inside of her wrist. Still warm. Still there. And all he could do was wait.
He hated waiting.
âč
After a few delayed flightsâNew York in the winter was a logistical nightmareâthey finally arrived. Her mother, father, and Jane. Too many travelers, too little runway space, and too much wind. JFK had been a mess, so had LaGuardia. The snow had been light, but too early in the year, enough to snarl traffic and reroute planes. Chesterâs flight was still stuck somewhere in Illinois. First weather, then a mechanical issue. He wouldnât be in until the following day, if he was lucky. Harry had checked for updates every hour, even though it wasnât his place.
He had heard enough about them to paint a picture before they ever walked through the hospitalâs front doors. Elaine Ainsworth: the charming woman who liked beauty pageants and ambitions for all her children. Jane: the protective older sister, sharp-edged but deeply loyal. Mr. AinsworthâEdwardâwho had a tendency to monologue and assume others were listening when they werenât. Their voices had floated in and out of Catherineâs speakerphone calls for months, so Harry had grown used to the cadence of their lives. But nothing about them prepared him for the sight of them now.
They arrived pale, with suitcases still half-zipped and eyes too wide. Elaine looked older than she shouldâve. Harry had never met her before, but even he knew she was usually composed. She walked into the hospital room like she had been holding her breath the whole flight, then exhaled in a sob as soon as she saw her daughter. Without hesitation, she sank into the chair beside the bedâHarryâs chairâand cried. Loud, unfiltered grief. She held Catherineâs hand like she could reverse time by sheer force.
âMy daughter,â she said over and over. She called her stubborn, said she got that from her father. She apologized for not letting her pick music sooner. âI didnât know it would make you so happy.â Harry stood by the wall, still and tight. Each word carved something into him. He looked away when Elaineâs voice broke again.
Her father was quieter. When he first walked in, he said thank you to Harry. Just a quiet pat on the back and a few words about how heâd heard Harry had been there every day. Then he cursed the city, mumbled something about this being why he didnât want her moving here. âToo many damn people, too much traffic, always in a rush. I told her itâd catch up to her.â He left after that, only to return twenty minutes later, eyes red. Then left again. Then came back again. Each time, he lingered longer, as if trying to decide whether or not to believe the machines keeping her stable were real.
Jane was the calmest of the three, but it was a brittle calm. She hadnât stopped crying, not really. Her eyes were puffy, but she was careful, composed. She stepped toward Harry and hugged him. It surprised himâshe had never met him before. âIâm sorry weâre meeting like this,â she said, voice low and rough. âI always meant to visit. Something always came up. Thatâs not an excuse. It just⊠happened.â Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak. She didnât go near the bed, not at first. Just looked from a distance, arms crossed, biting her lip.
The room felt overfilled, like grief had changed its volume, taking up space. Harry stayed quiet, shifted to the edge. He gave them the room. He didn't know what else to do. Her mother held her hand. Her father sat, then stood. Jane paced. And Harry watchedâwatched the woman he loved sleep beneath white sheets and wires, unable to speak for herself. Watched the people who had known her longer try to make up for things they never said. And he stood at the perimeter, feeling both included and not. Helpless. Like a placeholder in someone elseâs tragedy.
Somewhere along the way, heâd fallen asleep in that overcrowded room. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the stillness of her breathing, or the sheer weight of not having to answer another question. He didnât remember lying down, just waking to the sound of a voiceâher voice. Muffled. Slurred.
At first, he thought he was dreaming. Catherine mumbled something in her sleep. Incoherent. Just fragments, consonants without shape. He jerked upright. His whole body tensed, breath sharp. She moved. Her head turned slightly. Her eyes blinked open and rolled half-shut again. Then she moaned, as if in pain. He was already pressing the call button, already shouting down the hall, but by the time the nurse arrived, she was still againâpeaceful, eyes closed, barely a crease in her brow. He looked back at her like he had imagined it. The nurse said it was normal. Her sedation was light. Sheâd drift in and out. Still, he looked wrecked.
Elaine motioned for him to sit. Back in his usual chair. Back at her side. She didnât say anything, just gave a quiet nod and slid over. Maybe it was mercy, or maybe she could see that the not knowing had been killing him more than anything else. He sat.
Chester arrived the next morning.
He walked into the room while the doctor was mid-sentence. Catherine was half-awake again, eyes fluttering, head tilting slowly at whatever was being said to her. Chester paused by the doorway. Tall, square-shouldered, looking like he hadnât slept. He scanned the room quickly. His eyes landed on Harry, slumped at the edge of the bed, shirt creased, hair in disarray. His face gave nothing away, but the pause said enough.
âSheâs stable,â the doctor had said. âNo signs of further complication. Sheâs still groggy, but sheâs responsive. Weâll need a few more days to monitor her before we consider a discharge. Then sheâll need a full course of physical therapy. Her left hip will need supervised rehabilitation. It could be done here, but it depends on what your family prefers. There are excellent programs out of state as wellâslightly less pressure, better recovery environments.â
And just like that, the room turned serious again. Jane shifted in her seat. Elaine rubbed her temples. The doctor left. Mr. Ainsworth muttered something about options, but it was Chester who took control of the conversation.
âI know a place back home for physical therapy. In California. Quiet. Private. Excellent staff. I can send the info. Weâd be closer, we can all take turns watching her,â said Chester. âThereâs space at my old house too, if we need it. But home is fine. About a 30 minute drive. She can convalesce without the noise here.â
Harry looked up.
He said, carefully, âCatherine doesnât like being away from the city too long.â
âShe canât walk properly,â Chester replied. âWhat is she going to do?â
Harry swallowed hard. âI know. I want her to get well quicker too. But sheâll want to decide.â
âSheâs not in any state to make decisions,â Chester snapped.
Elaine interrupted before it turned into something worse. âItâs temporary. Just for a while. Until sheâs fully mobile again.â
Harry didnât argue after that. He didnât know if this was best for her, or just what was best for their peace of mind. But he wasnât her family. And in that moment, all he could do was nod.
When the decision was brought upâabout moving Catherine to a recovery facility outside the city, closer to her childhood homeâher mother looked directly at Harry. There was something kind in her eyes, a softened version of grief, and she spoke with care, even gratitude. âWeâd like you to come too, if you can.â
But before he could answerâbefore he could even shape the beginnings of a nodâChester stood.
âAnd who the fuck is he?â he said, loud, jarring, his voice slicing through the cold hospital air. âThe guy that let her get hit? Where the fuck were you, by the way?â His voice cracked around the last word, and Harry realized how much of it was anger and how much was just fear.
âWhat were you doing that was so important? Were you in a fight and let her walk at night, drunk? Did you two have a little spat and you decided to sulk and let her go out by herself?â
Elaine was already standing, face twisted with tension, but Chester didnât stop.
âSheâs in her twenties. Sheâs a fucking kid. Sheâs too young for this,â Chester snapped. âFor hospitals and trauma and all this shit. She should be writing music and dating some violinist, not being half-comatose because some old asshole didnât notice she was gone.â
Harry didnât respond. Not even a blink. His heart was a stone that thudded hard once, then dropped. Because a part of himâhowever small, however cruelâagreed. He was older. He did let her go out alone. He had chosen pride, blind and stupid with the kind of male instinct that never served anyone well. He had let her down. And Chester, for all his blunt fury, wasnât wrong about that.
Harry didnât remember sitting down, but he had. The chair felt stiff and cold beneath him. His hands had curled into fists, not from defensiveness but because Chester was right. Every word of it.Â
Catherine was too good. Too good for this, for him. Too bright to be wasted on a man like him; insecure, prideful man whoâs only good for his money.
Elaine snapped thenâsharp and suddenâand ordered the entire family outside. There was a pause, the kind that made Harry feel like he was fifteen again, listening to adults argue about things they thought he couldnât understand. He gave her a quiet nod, an unspoken thank-you, and watched them file out one by one. The door closed behind them, muffling their voices into a soft blur. He didnât need to hear every word. The shape of it was clear. It would be better for her, they said. She would be surrounded by people who knew her best. She would heal faster in familiar air. No matter how much she loved the city, how many times she refused to come home, New York was chaos. New York was noise.
He was still listeningâhalf-listeningâwhen he heard a rustle from the bed. Something small. Movement.
He was on his feet before he even registered it, already beside her, already reaching. Her eyes didnât open fully, but her mouth parted, and a small, broken sound came out.
He took her hand gently, brushing his thumb across her knuckles. âIâm here,â he said, barely a whisper.
She moved her lips againâwords trying to form, but not quite. He leaned in closer. âThey want to move you,â he said. âTo California. Back home. They think itâs better for recovery. Do you want to go?â
Another sound, just a breath this time. Her eyes flickered beneath her lashes, her fingers twitching against his palm.
âAre you in pain?â he asked.
She shook her head. It was slow, but definite.
He breathed out, not relief, but something close to it.
He stayed beside her, speaking softly, the way people do when theyâre trying to reach someone underwater. He told her what sheâd missed. About Sam, who came every day and brought her favorite tea even though she couldnât drink it yet. About her friend, who cancelled her trip to Brazil just to visit. About the string player from that one ensemble she likedâhe came, too, and stayed longer than anyone expected. He recited the names of each one, slowly, as if it might anchor her back into the world. âYour studioâs taken care of,â he murmured. âEmmaâs been helping, along with your manager. They talked for hours and seemed to handle everything. They said theyâll email you progress and you can open it when you're healthy. â
He paused, then added, âThe driver was arrested. The one who caused the crash. Some druggie, they said. No alcohol, just pills. The family of the woman who died is pursuing the caseâIâve got a lawyer keeping me updated, but itâs not something youâll need to worry about. Iâll take care of it.â
He brushed a strand of hair from her face, careful not to graze the bruise beneath her eye. âYou survived,â he said, voice cracking. âGod, you survived. I was so fucking stupid, Catherineââ
He stopped, exhaled, lowered his head against her hand.
âWhatever you want. Iâll give. Anything.â
And then, faintly, he felt her stir. She pulled her hand from his, slowly. He looked up just as her eyes fluttered half open.
âI wannaâŠâ she said, barely audible.
She faltered. A pause.
âI wanna go home,â she whispered. And then, she cried. He saw the tears before he felt the weight of them.
Then she winced, and it made his heart break. Her eyes fluttered shut again, and she didnât open them.
And maybe it was the hospital. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the part of him that believed Chester had a pointâbut Harry didnât argue. He didnât beg. He didnât ask for more. He took the flinch of her hand as a form of rejection, an angry reaction.
He just nodded, but inside, Harryâs heart was breaking.
He would not have parted with her, but one word from her and he will do it. Just like he promised. Anything. And if what she wants is to go home, away from New York, away from him, then he will grant that wish. No matter how much it kills him.
A/N: Shorter chapter today. Next week has more than 11k words! Support an amateur writer by interacting with this fic!
